If only we had more wall space…

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories

A black wildebeest was my first plains game trophy.

I am strolling down Memory Lane again with a smile on my face. My six trophies just arrived this morning from my third hunting trip to Bergzicht Game Lodge in Namibia. Every year our house looks more and more like a hunting lodge. We like it that way. It has been a very gradual process. Our wall space and floor space are now so limited that we need to be creative on what we take down, what we put up, and how it is arranged. But let me back up a few decades.

I did not grow up in Africa, but it has always called to me. I still watch every BBC and National Geographic special on its lands, people and wildlife. It never grows old. I read Robert Ruark’s Horn of the Hunter before I even became a hunter. My Dad taught me to shoot as a young teen, but I became a huntress in the company of my husband and our friends when we were in college in the early 70s. For decades we hunted white-tailed and mule deer in several states for meat but not for trophies. One of our adages back then was, “you can’t eat antlers”.

We both got degrees in biology, and Ron was a self-employed professional taxidermist for over thirty years. Other people’s hunting trophies were therefore part of our income stream, but we did not personally engage in that aspect of hunting. Until we retired and moved to Montana in 2001, we did not even consider making trophy hunting for anything a priority in our lives. There were too many other things to see and do and places to go. Africa never called to Ron. He frequently said that if he could not go to Africa as it was in 1950, he wasn’t interested. Science Fiction time travel aside, that outlook made no sense to me. So, I went on my own. I took out a loan and did a photo safari in Kenya in 1992. That was well before digital cameras and smart phones, when the World Wide Web and personal computers were still technological babies.

By the time that I went on my second African photo safari to Zambia in 2014, I was at least in the digital age, and the experience was magical. So yes, wildlife photography also preceded trophy hunting. But I am inching closer to that transition.

We had our first trophy hunt in Austria in 2017. In May 2018, a couple of long-time bird- and deer- hunting friends were making a return trip to Bergzicht Game Lodge, and I tagged along with my old Nikon camera and my new 150-600 mm lens. I had no plan to hunt for anything. One of my friends was only after jackal and baboon on this trip, so I rode with the other fellow who had a longer list of desired plains game. On a hunting trip, a mere photographer accedes to the agenda of the hunter in the vehicle. That was OK too, but I saw so many things that I wanted to stop and photograph! One day I borrowed my friend’s rifle to shoot a red hartebeest that was causing problems by fighting through a fence with another bull. He was in a buffer strip between the hunting lands and the neighboring property that ran cattle. PH Steph Joubert put the range finder on him when he stopped running from us, and he was standing broadside about 300 yards away. Although we had all been instructed to hold in line with the front leg, I had hunted for over forty years holding just behind the front leg, and I defaulted to that automatically. It was OK. I took out both lungs and the cull animal died quickly. Steph and the tracker were both impressed with the shot. Now I had the itch to pull the trigger on trophies of my own. Years ago, I saw a quote about how everything in Africa bites, but the worst of all was the Safari Bug. It’s true. That is how it happened to me. I was still taking photos at every opportunity, but I also set my sights on shooting a black wildebeest and a nyala.

I know that many hunters go on and on about the make and caliber of their rifles and the particulars of the loads that they shoot, but to me a rifle is a tool. You just need the right one for the job, and the skill, judgment and patience to use it accurately. I have one rifle at home, a Browning .270 that was a gift from my father. I did not bring a rifle to Namibia, so on the sensibly obligatory trip to the rifle range, I was shooting a borrowed gun. I cannot even tell you what it was. I can only say that it was easy to use and did the job. It was time to hunt.

When we reached an open area with many black wildebeest in view, we left the vehicle behind and started walking single file through the short, dry grass. Steph went first with the shooting sticks, and I followed close behind with the rifle. I lost track of how many times I set the rifle on the shooting sticks only to have a solitary bull bound further away or into the herd, waving his glorious blonde tail and kicking up his heels. We would spot another loner and head in his direction, but I never had that extra fraction of a second to get the crosshairs on target and pull the trigger. Finally, there was a bull standing still and quartering toward us at about 250 yards. I held just right of center low on his chest to catch both heart and lungs and pulled the trigger. He did not go far, and I had my very first African trophy. That taxidermy mount now hangs in an upstairs bedroom. I give him a pat on the nose every now and then. A wildebeest in the bedroom? Remember, I told you we are very short on wall space.

Although eight hours a day might be spent hunting, that still left plenty of time to enjoy the meals and the ambience back at the lodge. Wild game featured heavily in the menu, and I loved that. We even had a chance to sample choice cuts from animals taken that week. For one dinner appetizer, Steph grilled blue wildebeest tenderloins over acacia coals, and they practically melted in your mouth. I also learned that he was quite a joker. He photo-bombed a picture that I was taking of my hunting partners at the dinner table before I even knew what that behavior was called. How was he as a PH? Great. He knew the property. He knew the wildlife and their behavior. He knew how to set up for a good shot. Experience counts, and he demonstrated that he had it in spades. I wish that he would write an article for AHG!

What I wanted next was a nyala. That species captivated me the first time that I ever saw one hanging on a friend’s wall…so beautiful. That herd was being built up at the time, and owner Hannes DuPlessis had very few that he was willing to have taken. He allotted two days for that hunt. We patrolled the hunting area in two vehicles, working to spot a suitable nyala or at least find a set of fresh tracks. That was also one of those times when a desired photo op flashed by before I could even say “stop, please”. We drove right by a pair of bat-eared foxes, the first ones that I had ever seen outside of a zoo. I was already thinking that I would have to come back some day, so I put bat-eared fox photos in my Bucket List. Before long Hannes radioed Steph to say that they were following a nice nyala that had just lost his status of herd bull that morning to a younger challenger. Once we were in the right area, we got fleeting glimpses of that bull, but he would disappear behind a screen of large shrubs before I could get the crosshairs on him. Eventually the trackers set out to follow him on foot, and we set up in what we hoped would be an intercept position. Suddenly there he was, walking in our direction. Steph wanted me to wait for a standing broadside shot, but there was no guarantee that it was going to happen. He could just as easily have slipped away in the cover once again. Lines of sight were very limited. As he kept walking, I put the crosshairs on his chest much as I had done for the black wildebeest, and I pulled the trigger. He dropped in his tracks. I was thrilled. As he was being set up for the customary photos of a successful hunt, I could not stop smiling. I was so grateful to the owner, my PH, and the trackers who had made that moment possible. I laid my hand on his forehead, a gesture of respect for the life that I had just taken. I stroked his side, admiring the markings. When Hannes checked his teeth, the wear on his lower incisors showed that he was an old guy. He had been in a lot of battles in his life. His hide was full of old scars plus the new marks from the fight that he had just lost. Back at the lodge, all of the guys kept asking me what I wanted to hunt next or offering suggestions for what they felt I should hunt. Kudu? No. I had too much affection for that regal antelope to kill one. Gemsbok? No. There was still the issue of mount size and wall space. Where could I put a big antelope with big horns? We had already been taking down artwork to make room for trophies from Austria. For the rest of my stay at Bergzicht I only took photos, but I knew that I had to come back some day. The Safari Bug had bitten me, and I was firmly under Africa’s spell.

I went back to Bergzicht by myself in both August 2021 and March 2024, hunting again with both camera and rifle, but those adventures and successes are a story for another time. I know that a lot of African hunters and guides frown upon hunting from a vehicle or within any size of enclosure delimited by fences. In my opinion and based upon my experiences, fair chase is not a “one size fits all” code of conduct. Is shooting a white-tailed deer from a hunting stand more ethical than taking an African antelope from a parked vehicle? That is a fine line. I do not condemn others for having different hunting goals or methods from mine. For me, hunting ethics have a core of following the law wherever you hunt, minimizing an animal’s suffering, and of making safety the top priority of every outing. One shot. One kill. It is not something that I have achieved every time that I seek to put meat in the freezer at home, or cross an ocean to hunt in another habitat, but it is true most of the time. Non-hunters don’t understand that the hunt is so much more than just the killing. It is the sights and sounds and smells and sensations that just make you feel more alive, and sharing it with folks who appreciate all of it as much as you do is integral to the whole experience. If I ever lose that twinge of regret when my quarry is lying dead at my feet, that animal that I both desire and respect, then it will be time to quit hunting. I am 74 and I have not reached that point yet. If only we had more wall space!

The face of the red hartebeest was scarred from fighting through a fence with a rival bull.

The photo of a young blue wildebeest scrambling to catch up to Mom was one of my favorites.

Another spectacular Namibian sunrise.

Hannes posed with me and my lovely old nyala.

This young kudu bull was heading for higher ground.

Silhouette of a secretary bird.

One for the Road

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories, News

Masailand, 2006. A scene that could have occurred in 1906, or 1806, or… But memories are more real than any photograph.

By Terry Wieland

Dreaming, Remembering, Reliving

Three levels of fantasy

In a column for Esquire in 1935, called “Monologue to the Maestro: A High Seas Letter,” Ernest Hemingway reflected on the mechanics of writing and, in particular, how to recreate action so as to have your reader experience it as you did.

The key, he told the Maestro— “Mice,” for short, a young man who’d traveled to Key West to seek advice from the master—is to relive the event, isolate the specific thing that caused your emotion and, if you then describe it truly enough, you will evoke the same emotion in your reader. Hemingway’s example was watching the fishing line strip as a big fish ran, and the line rising into the air and squeezing out the water so it hung in drops, refracting the sunlight.

I read that first in 1977—I can remember exactly where and when, but I won’t belabor it—and took it to heart as I attempted to write serious literature in the years that followed. First, I learned that reliving, and simply remembering, are two different things. Those who relive and then recreate, on paper, are a world away from those who merely remember and describe.

For the record, the former is exhausting. At the end of a morning, you may be completely wrung out and have one short paragraph to show for it. The latter is considerably less taxing, depending on the writer’s determination to do it well, which is why we have good writers, bad writers, and those who should never touch a keyboard.

In 1988, I hunted Alaska brown bears on Montague Island and, some months later, attempted to recreate the incident in a magazine article. It entailed less than 60 seconds of action as the bear came in fast, responding to a deer call, and finally dropped, five shots later, with its neck broken. In attempting to relive that event, I learned that one can, through a process almost of self-hypnosis, relive something but (in my case at least) one can do it only three times. After the third time, it becomes merely remembering.

Something similar occurred, attempting to relive a very hot few moments with a Cape buffalo high on Mount Longido in 1993.

Sometime in the early 1970s, Gene Hill, who wrote for Guns & Ammo and later for Field & Stream, made a safari in Kenya. He loved Africa, and after he got home he kept his bags still partly packed with his Africa gear, just in case he got a last-minute invitation to return. This remained in his closet until after Kenya closed hunting in 1977 and he knew he would never go back—not, at least, to the places he’d been and remembered with a fondness so fierce it resembled Humbert Humbert’s feelings for Lolita.

Hill, an extremely gifted writer, wrote about finally unpacking his things, surrendering to the reality that the dream could never come true. Not now. The Kenya he’d hunted, and experienced, and grown to love, was gone. All he had left were dreams. At least, he called them dreams.

Reading that piece, now almost 50 years later, I began reflecting on the difference between dreams—anticipation of things that may never come—and memories—recollection of things that really happened. And, finally, the reliving of an event the way Hemingway described it.

As age has crept up on me, I find myself, usually in the early afternoon, feeling the need to sprawl in a nice chair and close my eyes, just for a bit. Very rarely do I actually fall asleep, so this hardly qualifies as the much-storied “nap.” I do, however, descend the cosmic stairs toward nap-dom, one step at a time, and occasionally enter a realm, in the infinitesimal interface between sleeping and waking, that is like time travel.

It’s not a dream and it’s never long; it’s a snatch, a snippet—a glimpse at a real place, that I really experienced, years before. The glimpse is brief, but so intense as to be almost painful. The water of the lake is real water, the smell of the juniper is real, and the ferns in the hot sun. Rarely is there any action, just a vivid image lasting only seconds, after which I always jerk back to consciousness, and I am often panting.

Never having been hypnotized, I can’t say if this is similar. From what I’ve read, it appears to be. Sometimes I can sort of will it to happen, but more often as I drift off my mind wanders and suddenly, there I am—in a tent in Africa in the early morning, with the ever-present cooing of doves, or walking into a biltong shop in Pretoria and smelling the droewors. And the smell of treated canvas, like old tents? Back in the army, back in a campground at the age of eight, back in the Okavango. Could be any of them. Ah, but that old canvas smell!

Sometimes it can be sparked by a whiff of gunpowder or, more usually, a spice. The merest sniff of cumin and other, mysterious, spices can put me back in the open market in Kampala in 1971— a world that has truly disappeared—and the smell of creosote, well, we won’t go into that. But if you can’t imagine creosote as an aphrodisiac, think again.

The most famous instance of this phenomenon in literature is Marcel Proust and his taste of a madeleine cake dipped in lime tea that brought forth all the memories recounted in Remembrance of Things Past—all seven wondrous volumes—and in the outdoor field, closer to home, Robert Ruark’s The Old Man and the Boy series in Field & Stream in the 1950s.

Memories sparked by an aroma are, of course, a different thing than the deliberate drawing of one’s self back into an event in order to isolate the emotional center, à la Hemingway. In that case, I found, if you do it only twice, leaving the third and last time for a later date, then you always have it, like a diamond tucked away for safe keeping. It’s always available to be taken out and relived, but you never do it, because then you wouldn’t have it anymore.

This is, I know, a long way from Gene Hill’s Field & Stream column about dreaming of Africa, and remembering, and—in his case—regretting that which once was and would never be again.

The truth is, and I hate having to quote Thomas Wolfe, who wrote only one memorable thing in his word-drenched life, and that a title, but you can’t go home again. No, really, you can’t. Many have tried, and maybe that’s why children today never want to leave home in the first place. But once gone, we quickly learn that what we left ceased to exist the moment we left it.

My Kampala of 1971, or Nairobi of 1972, or even, most recently, 1999. The Okavango in 1990? The Rift in 2006? Gawd, I even remember when downtown Johannesburg was a pleasant place, and the Carlton Hotel in the center of town, with its pinball arcade in the bottom floor, attracted the little black African kids off the street, and they would challenge us to pinball matches and always win. They were pinball wizards worthy of The Who, and I learned a few words of Xhosa and Zulu, long since buried, and I wonder where they are now?

One time, I caught a whiff of woodsmoke and was instantly transported to a campfire outside Gaborone, grilling mutton on sticks. I want to say the wood then was acacia, and there are varieties of acacia in America, so the firewood must have been some of that. Where it came from I have no idea, and it passed as quickly as it came. More’s the pity.

Speaking of wood, sand a piece of walnut and you’ll find me back in my parents’ basement in the 1960s, refinishing the stock on a Cooey .22. Or melt some linotype for bullets and I’ll be in the composing room of the newspaper where I started out way back when, and everything will be bright in spring and everything will be possible, because that’s the way it is when you’re 19.

They say your sense of smell is the strongest link to memory, and I have found nothing to dispute that. Hearing—music—is a distant second, while sight and touch do not figure at all.

What I’ve learned from all this is that our memories long outlast even the most pleasurable experience. They are a world, however, that most people never bother to really, truly, explore. Which is unfortunate cuz, I hate to tell you, eventually that’s all you’ll have, and a little practice ahead of time never hurts. It’s all I have left of the Africa I knew.

Next Time with Chad!

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories

Written by Dustin Bomley

Africa has been a mystical dream since I was 15 and started hunting with my uncle’s hand-me-down recurve bow. As I grew older and began shooting in 3D archery tournaments around the region, I always most enjoyed shooting the exotic African replica foam targets. Fast forward to my 40s, travelling across states carting my son to his “A” level hockey team practices, another hockey dad and I begin talking about hunting and shooting. We instantly became friends, as not only were our sons teammates, but our interests were aligned. I told my new friend, Chad, that someday I would love to hunt Africa.

Chad’s response, “I know just the guy and outfitter to go with!”

The next day at practice Chad arrived sporting a memory book that he had made from his trip to South Africa just a few years previously, hunting with Mike Birch’s Hunt the Sun Safaris. While I thumbed through the pages Chad described the very aspects that draw many sportsmen to the Dark Continent!

I was sold! When do we go? This was February of 2021 and Chad got the wheels rolling.

As we touched down in Johannesburg in late June 2022 my expectations were high, and I was absorbing everything I could. We lodged overnight at the Afton Safari Lodge, a transition spot for safari goers, and then were off on an early flight to Port Elizabeth the next morning. We didn’t arrive at our camp until the first evening, as we had to wait all day for a second flight from Joburg due to our rifle cases not arriving on our earlier flight. We rushed to get rifles shot while checking zero before dark so we could begin our hunt the next morning.

The first morning of my African safari was everything that I could have imagined! We made our way high onto a mountaintop in search of one of several target animals. My PH, James, and tracker Sperlo were glassing mountain reedbuck when I spotted a small group of kudu 800 yards away, making their way across an open area below and to the east of our position. Once it was determined that the bull was worth going after, we began our slow and methodical descent from our elevated perch. Moving into a good position and with a solid rest established, we waited as the kudu bull moved slowly into my predetermined shooting lane. The bull was 330 yards, and I squeezed the flat trigger on my custom 7mm SAUM to bag my very first African animal.

Little did I know that I had begun a quest—a quest that I would not completely realize until planning my second trip with Hunt the Sun Safaris.

The first trip to South Africa had been spectacular and I also had my then 16-year-old son in tow. We took a variety of animals during our trip, but not until a year and a half after returning home did I realize that I wanted to pursue what many call the Spiral Horn Slam which consists of African animals with horns that spiral from the base to the tip. The primary four in this “Slam” is the kudu also known as the Grey Ghost of Africa, eland, nyala and bushbuck. Each is entrenched in its own unique habitat, and as I began to study these wary animals, I learned each hunt would require its own strategy.

Chad and I began discussions regarding our future goals and dreams for returning to Africa. As can be imagined, Cape buffalo entered the conversation! Chad and I both have this crazy disease (more of an addiction) to firearms. In our talks we decided that we should buy a pair of matching rifles for our next safari. Thinking along the lines of buffalo, we elected to go with the venerable .375 H&H Magnum.

We then had to decide what brand of rifle we wanted to purchase or have built. In my research I came across Parkwest Arms and immediately fell in love with the look and options available on the SD-76 model. After much research and banter, Chad and I both ordered our first Parkwest rifles. Mine was a splendid Savanna, including wood fine enough to drive any fine furniture maker crazy. Chad’s rifle was a Dark Continent with the fit and finish of a Rolls Royce and a walnut stock that will make any safari goer drool with envy.

Planning began, airline flights were booked, but Chad had a medical issue crop up out of nowhere. We were a few months from leaving on this much looked forward to safari with Hunt the Sun Safaris, when my hunting buddy was forced to bow out of the trip…

Scrambling, I assembled a fine group of friends to join me, and they were all greatly anticipating the journey, just as I had during my first trip. The only problem was that I didn’t want to hunt buffalo with the new Parkwest Savanna without Chad and his Dark Continent along. Shifting gears, I began to revisit the Spiral Horn Slam.

Day three of my second trip to RSA, with a few animals taken by my accompanying friends and a few failed stalks made on eland, I began to have doubts about my spiral-horn ambitions.

We were on our way back to the Arnotsdale Lodge following my friend Adam’s successful barbary sheep hunt when our PH Brenley stopped the Toyota Land Cruiser to look over a herd of springbok. Off to the left at about 100 yards stood a small herd of eland. Looking over them, Brenley said there was a big bull in the herd. After a bit of maneuvering and checking the wind, we made a short stalk. The eland bull stood sandwiched between a younger bull and a few cows as they became aware of our presence. With a nervous wander, the bull cleared itself from the others and offered a 211-yard shot. I quickly turned the turret of the Leupold VX6 1-6 and anchored myself on the shooting sticks. A well-placed 270-grain Barnes TSX from my Parkwest Savanna, and the bull stumbled and fell. I must admit, the size of the eland bull stunned me! They look large on the hoof, but walking up to him it blew my mind just how enormous the largest African antelope actually is!

Day six came with an early morning departure from the lodge as we were headed south to where my new PH, JJ, knew of an area that held a good quantity of nyala. Nyala like brush and cover and finding them wasn’t so much the issue as finding a good bull. Once in the area we began to see nyala ewes and some young bulls, but finding one that was mature was becoming increasingly difficult. We were supposed to be moving the entire camp from the Northern Cape on the edge of the Kalahari to the Eastern Cape in the Karoo, and my little impromptu nyala hunt had delayed our departure. JJ and I were ready to call it a morning and begin our move with the rest of the group, when he whispered from behind his binoculars, “There’s a good bull!”

My heart leapt and I quickly grabbed my Swarovski 10x42s to scan in the direction JJ was looking. There, about 350 yards away was the bull, walking and feeding with the sun behind him, his white mane glistening in the light, creating a glowing halo around his body. I immediately noticed his orange legs and his lofty spiral horns silhouetted in the blue sky. This was everything I imagined a nyala hunt would be! Once he made his way behind some thorn brush, JJ and I began working our way toward him with the wind in our favor. Keeping a small ridge between us we worked our way into an ambush position. We anticipated a 150-yard shot, but the bull instead appeared from behind a green hedge at just 90 yards. I was already on the sticks and pressed into a stable hold. With the crosshairs burned on his right shoulder, the shot broke and the magnificent bull lunged up and into the next hedge. JJ turned and high-fived me, but then said, “Get another round loaded, these critters are tough, and those horns are sharp and dangerous!”

We approached the downed nyala, both its shoulders broken from the Barnes TSX. JJ had me shoot once more for insurance. I had taken my top target animal and was overwhelmed. Such a beautiful creature!

On day eight we settled into a beautiful farmhouse named Whytebank in the Eastern Cape, about three hours outside of Port Elizabeth. The temperature was a frigid 26 degrees F and for the second time in 18 years (according to the farm owners) there was snow on the ground in the mountains surrounding us. I was back with my original PH, Brenley, and we were headed out to see what we could find. Adam was looking for bushbuck, mountain reedbuck or blesbok. I was focused on bushbuck, as that would complete my Spiral Horn Slam. We started out, heading south to an area that Brenley knew had some good mountain reedbuck, when the radio began to sputter. One of the other trackers, Albert, was on the radio with Brenley speaking one of the 11 official different languages used in RSA. I picked up enough to know there had been a bushbuck spotted and Albert knew that our Cruiser had the bushbuck guys in it. A quick U-turn to the north and an 80 kph ride on a dirt road, and we soon approached an area called Many Waters. As we were looking up the hill, our tracker Anton spotted a long-horned ram and ewe on the downhill side. Brenley glassed him over and decided he was a mature ram. A 239-yard shot delivered from my trusty Parkwest Savanna and my Spiral Horn Slam was complete!

It took me two trips to complete my slam. Today Chad is on the mend from his medical issue, and we are beginning the planning for our third trip. This foray will also be outfitted by Mike Birch, Hunt the Sun Safaris, but we will be going a different direction. The third trip will take place in the Timbavati area of South Africa, and we both will be targeting the elusive Cape buffalo on his home turf while toting Parkwest rifles!

A couple of pre-safari, 100-yard practice groups with the Parkwest SD-76 Savanna chambered in 375 H&H Magnum.

On Target at 85

Nov 11, 2024 | Hunting Stories

By Ron Machado

When I stepped out of my room this morning, it was cold and dark. I grabbed a sweater near the door and went to meet my PH and his tracker. They were waiting near our hunting truck and within a few minutes, we were on our way.

But let’s back up a few months to lay out this hunt.

Early this year, I turned 85 and wanted to do something different for my birthday. I contacted an old friend, Carl van Zyl, the owner of John X Safaris in South Africa, and spoke with him about hunting a Cape buffalo. I had taken a Cape buffalo many years ago, but this time, I wanted a Dagga Boy, an old buffalo that had been kicked out of the herd by the younger males and was forced to live out his remaining years alone. We agreed on a time for the hunt, and I sent off the deposit. Several months passed, and after a two-day flight, I was in South Africa; more closely, I was at Woodlands. Woodlands is the main ranch for John X Safaris.

That is how I ended up, sitting in a nearly new Toyota pickup with my PH, Clayton, his tracker, Bull, and a professional video operator, Aiden, looking at different animals and getting some great photography of the many wild game species. Yes, there were Cape buffalo, hundreds of them, but none were Dagga Boys.

Late in the morning, we had driven to the top of a ridge and spotted a large herd of Cape buffalo drinking at a waterhole and got out of the truck to glass them. There were several nice buffalo in that herd, but that was the problem; I wanted a loner, one that had been kicked out. After a short time, Bull pointed to a dark spot a long way off in a large treeless pan; a shallow area where, during the rainy season, water collects, making a small lake for the animals to drink. Because the rainy season didn’t start for another month, the pan was dry. Our binoculars only told us that it was a dark spot. Clayton went to the truck and retrieved his spotting scope, setting it on the hood of the truck and watching the spot for a few minutes. Then he turned and said, “It’s a buffalo, and that’s all I can say. We need to get closer.”

With that, we drove down the hill and past the waterhole as the buffalo there quickly exited on the far side. We approached the area near the pan but could not see them because of a stand of trees. Clayton pulled to the side of the trail, looked at me, and asked, “Are you ready for a walk?” And therein could lie the problem. Being well into my eighty-fifth year, my knees aren’t in the best condition. Looking at him and smiling, I replied, “Hell, yeah.”

As we started in single file, Clayton said, “Walk slowly, and watch you don’t make any noise.” We moved through the trees, for several hundred yards, and came to the open area. We could see the buffalo about 130 yards away, lying in the sun sideways to us, his head facing away. Clayton motioned me to his side.

“I can only see one half of its horns. But the one side looks good,” he said quietly.

“If one side is good, I don’t care about the other. It doesn’t matter if it is broken or not,” I replied. Nodding his approval, he set the gun on the shooting sticks and put me in place for the shot. We waited, as the animal was still sleeping. Clayton whispered, “When he stands, he will take a few minutes to stretch. That is when you will take the shot.” Time passed with me on the sticks, Aiden with his camera over my shoulder, and Clayton and Bull waiting. What felt like an hour and was actually only ten minutes or so, the buffalo stood, turned towards us, took a healthy dump, and started walking directly towards us.

“He is coming to the water,” Clayton whispered. “Shoot him low in the chest.” But its head was held low, covering its chest and the buffalo offered no shot. Closing the distance to about sixty yards, it started moving to its left, opening up a part of its right leg and chest. I squeezed the trigger, and my shot hit low on its chest, just inside the leg. The buffalo turned, dust flowing off its back and, moving sharply to its left, it crashed into the brush at the side of the open area. We approached the animal with our guns ready when Clayton, smiling, said, “This hunt is over.”

I had my Dagga Boy.

Note: For anyone who is concerned about the meat, none of the buffalo was wasted. We the hunters enjoy what we shoot. Also, John X Safaris sponsors a school for local children and provides all the meat and side dishes, and also donates to a food pantry that helps feed local families. Nothing is wasted.

Bow, Arrow and a Bosbok

Nov 11, 2024 | Hunting Stories

By Frank Berbuir

It is end of August and I am lucky to be back again in South Africa to hunt with bow and arrow.

We are on a nice farm, managed by a lovely couple, on the border of the North West Province close to the Limpopo Province. We are familiar with our small hunting camp – our Jagkamp – from a former trip.

The landscape and scenery along the Crocodile River is stunning. There are some challenging and very rocky mountains, as well as dense bush and open plains, and we try our luck on stalking in these mountains for a bushbuck. However, because of the sharp rocks and high grass everywhere, it is not only difficult and noisy, but also risky – falling on these sharp-edged stones or twisting one´s ankle is not what we need.

In Africa everything is defending itself! Every bush and tree has thorns, the stones are jagged and sharp, and even the grass sometimes has barbs. So we have decided to sit in a pop-up blind close to a natural waterhole. Izak, my experienced PH, chose this location because of several bushbuck that roam in this area. Our day starts early with a 30-minute morning walk to the blind. It is quite crisp but slowly the sun rises and makes us feel comfortable. First early morning visitors are guinea fowls running around the waterhole followed by other colorful birds.

Our 360-degree ground blind.

Giraffes close by our blind.

Buffalo encounter on our way to the blind.

After an hour a black stork landed and started hunting for fish. Roughly an hour later three giraffes came close to the blind. Then it became quiet for the morning. In the afternoon we were sitting there again when suddenly from the mountains a herd of ten mountain reedbuck walked to the water. There was a stunning buck in the group but he was not what we were looking for. They stayed quite a while and it was interesting to observe them and their behavior, especially the youngsters that started playing around. Surprisingly, they were alerted and moved quickly away when a bunch of baboons came to the waterhole with a lot of noise. It was more or less over for that day when the light faded away and the baboons had finally left.

On our way to the blind the next morning we had a unexpected encounter with some buffalo that luckily were not interested in us at all and moved into the bush, but anyway that wakes you up when you are as close as 50 meters. After about three hours in the blind nothing had happened except for some doves and francolins flying around. Around 9 o´clock suddenly Izak tapped on my shoulder pointing to the right and murmured: “Frank, there is a bushbuck standing behind a tree. You better make yourself ready.” I saw it and could feel my blood pressure rising. Quietly I lifted my bow and soundlessly put an arrow on the rest. The bushbuck started moving slowly forward, staring at our blind. We both sat motionless in our chairs. Luckily the ram went into the right direction and would probably come right in front of our blind at about 25 meters.

“Stay calm and focused,” I reminded myself. Finally, after about two minutes that felt like eternity, indeed the buck stood in front of our blind.

“Wait until he is calm and will lower his head for drinking,” Izak whispered. Luckily the bushbuck turned slightly to the waterhole and offered a quartering away position.

Equipment:

Bow: Mathews Z7x @ 70 lbs

Arrow: Carbon Express Maxima Hunter 350

Broadhead: Silverflame 2-Blade @ 125 grain

Optics: Zeiss Victory Binocular & Nikon Rangefinder

Release: Scott

Camo: Sniper Africa

Now was the right time to smoothly pull my bow at full draw and set the dot of my sight on his vitals.

With a slight tap on the trigger of my release, the arrow flew on its deadly mission, and within a split second hammered into and through the antelope. The ram jumped up, turned around and ran back in the direction he came from, but after roughly 50 meters we could see him stumbling, falling down, and finally expiring.

What an extraordinary performance again of my bow and arrow. We waited for a couple of minutes before we stepped out of the blind and walked to the bushbuck.

Overwhelmed and more than happy with this awesome trophy animal, Izak and I knelt next to him, and after a few minutes of silence in respect, we arranged the buck for some pictures. Back at our camp the “Happy Hour” beer tasted excellent.

Once again, I had a tremendously good hunt with unforgettable impressions and memories in South Africa.

Shoot straight, take care, and always good hunting – “Waidmannsheil” and “Alles van die beste.”

The beautiful landscape along the Crocodile River.

Habitat of the bushbuck.

View from our blind.

Landscape of North-West.

Bio

German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting, which he has practiced for more than 25 years. Although he’s bowhunted in several countries, he’s become addicted to hunting in Africa since his first safari in 2004. Frank is a mechanical engineer and a director for supplier quality development in the automotive industry.

A Leopard For Günter

Nov 8, 2024 | Hunting Stories

By Sidney Lovell-Parker

August, 2024

The year was 2004, and I was finalizing the analysis for a potential offshore oil discovery between Portugal and Spain for the Italian company I worked for when my secretary interrupted saying that my friend Mike (Marco Antônio Moura de Castro) had already called three times wanting to speak to me. I returned the call curious and wondering what could be so urgent. Mike answered my call promptly, greeting me with the hearty laugh he had.

“Mr. Parker” and another laugh. I knew that the call was not to give me anything and then came the request, “I need a big favor from you………”

At the time, Mike was the president of the Safari Club International – Chapter Brazil, a position he was proud of. He had hunted with me about four times, twice in Zimbabwe, once in Bolivia and once in Mozambique. He was a good friend and an excellent travel companion. Unfortunately, he passed away two years ago. Mike was a hunter and collector. As president of the SCI, he had contact with hunters from many places and was involved in the social aspect, an activity he loved.

“Mr. Parker, I have a German/Canadian friend of mine, a member of the SCI, who is in Rio for just two days and would really like to meet you. He saw your photo with a Leopard in the SCI magazine and would like to know what your experience was like.”

If there is one thing I don’t like to do, it is socializing, but I couldn’t refuse a request from my friend. He asked if he could share my contact information and I said yes. An hour later my cell phone rang and it was the German/Canadian. “Sidney Parker, I’m Günter Strangemann and Mike gave me your contact information.” We arranged to have lunch the next day.

The next day, a Friday, I called Günter and we arranged to have lunch at a steakhouse called Esplanada Grill, which was very convenient for me since it was two blocks from my office in Ipanema. We agreed to meet at the restaurant at 3:00 p.m. The lunch time seemed strange to Günther because it was so late, and he asked me twice during the call to confirm the time.

In Rio, it was common on Fridays that business people work until mid afternoon and then go out for lunch and relax, meeting up with acquaintances (friends or not). I arrived about ten minutes early, told the doorman that my guest was coming, and got a table near the entrance in a quieter place so we could talk.

At 3:00 p.m. sharp, a tall, burly man with red cheeks entered the restaurant, looking like a big bear. I looked straight at him and said, “Welcome to Rio, Günter. ”Mr. Parker I presume”, he replied, plagiarizing the famous journalist Henry Morton Stanley.

We sat down at the table, ordered drinks, and started talking. It was actually Günter telling his stories. He had hunted almost everything in various places around the world. Lions, elephants, hippos, rhinos, and all the antelopes and gazelles found in Africa. Not to mention the animals hunted in other parts of the world. The only one of the Big Five that he had not managed to collect was the Leopard. He had tried three times and failed every time. He had seen several signs of Leopards in the various areas he had tried, but had never seen one.

He was in Argentina hunting red deer and saw an article in a magazine that featured one of the leopards I had hunted. When he arrived in Rio, he contacted, Mike, asking for information on how to contact me. I then asked how long he had known Mike, and he replied that he had not actually met him personally and that he had only spoken to him on the phone when he asked for help in locating me. I burst out laughing, and Günther did not understand why I was laughing. We had been sitting for two hours eating an excellent sliced picanha. Günther was telling his stories and I was listening most of the time. Did I really understand that the reason for our meeting was for me to share my experience of hunting two giant leopards? After a few caipirinhas I think neither of us knew.

I checked my watch and it was almost seven o’clock. We had been sitting there talking for almost four hours. I asked for the bill and we left. Günther was staying at the Meridian Hotel at the beginning of Copacabana and I offered to drive him. On the way back he told me that he had not planned to go through Rio after his hunting trip in Argentina; it was an impulse decision after seeing my Leopard in the magazine. He then bought a ticket from Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro and then São Paulo, where he would catch the flight back to Canada. Since he was hunting in Argentina, he was carrying his rifle with him. Upon arriving at Galeão airport in Rio de Janeiro, the rifle was seized by the federal police. After much explanation, the tax officer told Günther that the rifle would be kept in custody at the Federal Revenue Service and that when he left the country, he could check the rifle on the flight to Canada.

Something told me that things would not be that easy. I then asked my new friend to show me the tickets, which he promptly did. Looking at the tickets, I realized what I had feared. One ticket was Buenos Aires – São Paulo – Toronto. The other one purchased in Argentina was Buenos – Rio and another one was Rio – Guarulhos (São Paulo). This meant that he could not ship his rifle directly from Rio to Toronto. In other words, he had to enter the country with a rifle and without a license to do so and take a domestic flight Rio – São Paulo and then board an international flight to Toronto.

I looked at him and said, “Günter, we have a problem.” Your flight to São Paulo tomorrow is at 10:30, but I will stop by the hotel to pick you up at 5:00. I explained the situation to Günther and left. That day at 5:00 in the morning, I picked Günther up at the hotel and we headed to the airport. On the way, he asked me if I could plan to take him hunting a leopard. I said yes, next year, 2005. After much conversation, I managed to resolve the situation with the rifle and my new friend boarded the plane back to Canada.

Three weeks later after meeting Günter, I called Wayne Grant to arrange and book the hunt. It was late November 2004. Wayne is a good friend of mine. He was born in Bulawayo, Southern Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe, in 1960. He began hunting professionally in 1980 and set up his own operation in 1985. We met in the early 1990s and have hunted together several times in Zimbabwe, Tanzania and Mozambique and have become good friends. He is without doubt the best PH I know and I know several. He is the author of two excellent books, “Into The Thorns” (on Leopard) and “Drums of The Morning” (Lion). Both books describe some of our hunts.

It was late November 2004. I explained the whole meeting with Günter and said that I would really like to take him hunting a leopard. Wayne said that I had already scheduled a client to hunt a leopard with me at the end of May 2005 and asked me if I intended to return to Africa twice that year or extend my stay to do the second hunt. I replied that my idea was to do both hunts in the same period. He would find another experienced PH to guide Lamberto (the Brazilian hunter) and he and I would do Günther’s hunt. Wayne cautioned, “Sid, you know very well that having two clients in the same area with the same objective, leopard, is not ideal”.

Of course I knew, but the area that Wayne had control over was quite large and with many animals and also cattle. Leopards are territorial animals and the size of their territory is proportional to the amount of food available. The more prey you have, the smaller your territory will be. Wayne obviously knew that. “Okay,” he said, “I don’t have any quotas left at the moment, but if there’s a cancellation, the spot is yours. I’ll keep you posted.”

In early 2005, Günther would call me from time to time to check if everything was okay or sometimes just to chat. My German friend did not communicate by e-mail. The few times I sent him a written message I never received a reply. In one of these calls, in March, he told me that he would really like to bring a friend and wanted to know if it was possible. I asked if it would be just as an observer or if he intended to hunt as well. Before getting a reply, I said that another leopard would not be possible but that he could hunt plains game. I had already arranged a leopard hunt with Lamberto for the same period, in the same region and staying at the same camp. This did not please Wayne at all, and I confess that it did not please me either.

I knew the region of our Safari well. I had already been there a few times and it was where I hunted the two large Leopards. The area is in the western Matabeleland. The Matobo Hills Range is about 120 km long and about 60 km wide. It stretches east—-west. From the Bulawayo to Beitbridge road in the east to the Botswana border in the west. The Hills run in an east west line only about 30 km south of Zimbabwe’s second largest city Bulawayo. Rhodesia’s founder Cecil John Rhodes is buried there at a place called “World´s View”.

Our Safari was about 70 km west of Bulawayo in the western part of the Matobo Hills Range. The area we were hunting was about 200 000 acres in extent.

There are two camps in the area. The northern camp on the mountain, which belongs to a good friend of Wayne´s and also of mine – Graham Robertson. This camp is very beautiful and comfortable. It has a spectacular view of the region. In the dining room there is a picture frame with photographs of the best and biggest leopards hunted in the region. My two are in that “Hall of Fame”.

I have great memories of all the times I stayed there. This time we were going to stay at the southern camp. This was on a property which belonged to a local rancher named Alvord Mabena. It was also very comfortable but did not have the view or the charm of the mountain camp.

Wayne used to get a quota of about ten leopards on his areas of 200 000 acres plus about 50 000 acres of nearby adjoining ranchland. The topography is primarily granite koppies interspersed with maponi woodland, acacia thorn savanna and mangwe bushveld. Because of the granite hills which provide shelter for many small animals like rats, mice, hyraxes, lizards, birds, etc, there is a good population of snakes such as cobras, black mambas and puff adders.

These small animals in the koppies as well as klipspringers, duikers, bushpigs, baboons, monkeys, red rock hares, guineafowl, and francolins all who live in and around the koppies, are all prey for the leopards.

The leopards in this region have no problem with food. It is like having a good supply of live food in the pantry at home. And if they want something bigger and perhaps juicier, they can just hunt around the koppies for a Kudu, Impala or a young cow from some farmer.

This is certainly one of the reasons this region produces large leopards. Because of the human presence, the leopards in this region have developed nocturnal habits. Leopards do not mind the presence of humans but have developed habits to avoid them. They are extremely smart and, why not say, “educated” to the activities of humans.

And the day arrived. Everything was ready and well organized. It was May 25, 2005. Lamberto and I were going to fly from São Paulo to Johannesburg and Günther and John from Atlanta to Johannesburg. The difference in arrival times between the flights was approximately 55 minutes. Our meeting point would be at the Johannesburg airport at the registration and entry permit counter for the rifles. I had already hired an agent to take care of all the paperwork and he would meet me there with all the documentation ready.

Our connection from Johannesburg to Bulawayo was tight and if we missed the flight we would have to sleep in Johannesburg and fly the next day. I wanted to do everything I could to avoid that. With the permits for the rifles in hand, we picked up our luggage and went to check in for our destination, Bulawayo.

When I go on safari, I travel light. Three pairs of shorts, one pair of longs for special occasions, five shirts, three T-shirts, three pairs of socks, my Clark desert boots, one pair of sneakers, one light jacket and one for cold nights, two caps and underwear. That’s all I need. When you go on safari, you have daily laundry service at the camp.

When I saw John’s luggage, I almost fell over. John was carrying his rifle in a suitable, normal box, and another bag in the shape of a tube, approximately 1.5 meters high and about 0,60 meters in diameter. Very similar to those bags that you see in movies soldiers carrying on their backs to embark on a battle. When the bag was weighed, it came to 35 kg, that is, well above the permitted amount.

John, embarrassed, offered to pay the amount for the excess weight, but the employee explained that it was not a question of paying, but that it was not permitted because it exceeded the maximum weight that the porters could carry. That said, I asked for the key to what we later named the “grocery store” and started emptying it and distributing the contents between Lamberto, Günther and I. I almost lost my cool with what happened and we almost missed the flight.

Once on board the flight to Bulawayo I relaxed. Everything went well despite the small setback with John’s overweight luggage. As the safari progressed the contents of this bag proved to be this proved to be a godsend. We landed and Wayne was waiting for us along with Bee, his main tracker at the time. We then headed straight to camp.

Our camp consisted of four en suite bungalows. The first and main one was Günther’s, then mine, separated by the fireplace. Further to the right and ahead was the dining room. Immediately after that were two en suite chalets where Lamberto and John were accommodated. Behind that were the PH’s accommodations and to the rear were the rest of the staff.

The next day Wayne and I met early to plan the day. I was responsible for taking the three of them to test the rifles. There is talk that this is necessary to check that the scope has not become unadjusted during the trip. This story is a not the only reason. In reality, the aim is to check how well each person shoots and to assess Handling speed and accuracy. A scope that is correctly positioned and well secured with screw glue will not move unless there is a major disaster, and then the concern should be different.

I focused on helping Lamberto and with his second shot I saw that something was very wrong. He hadn’t even hit the target bench. Looking from above I could see from the small scratches on the scope’s tube that it was moving with each shot. I tried to explain to him but he didn’t want to listen and continued to waste ammunition. It was fine if that was what he wanted as long as he didn’t put anyone at risk in the hunt.

I then turned to John. He was not only a very good shot, but also a very fast one. He had, in my opinion, the minimum requirements needed to hunt any of the big five when it came to shooting.

Now I wanted to focus on my friend. Günther had a beautiful rifle, a Mannlicher caliber 9.3×64 Brenneke with a Zeiss scope. A beautiful set. We then began to practice and I soon realized that my friend was shooting reasonably well but without consistency. Sometimes the shots were a little high on the left and then a little low on the right. This was not at all good for hunting a Leopard. I decided, with Günther’s permission, to test the rifle since the results of the shots were not consistent. I fired two shots one above the other, both in the center. Now I decided to test if he would be able to shoot once the target was visible. The result, a disaster for a Leopard hunt at night.

There are a few ways to hunt a Leopard, most of which depend on the region and the animal’s habits in a given region. Those interested can read more about this in detail in my friend Wayne Grant’s book, “Into the Torns.” The technique we would use to hunt in this region was to bring the Leopard to us. In other words, by placing bait.

On this second night at camp, John revealed to us why his “Tube Bag” was so heavy. A good part of the bag was taken up by various types of cheese, pâtés, salamis, wines, cognacs and a variety of malts – some very welcome, unexpected treats.

On the third day Wayne and I talked before the others arrived for breakfast. We decided to make two groups. A professional hunter Bruce Cronjé would take care of Lamberto and John. The two of us would concentrate on Günther.

It would take a lot of work to get the German ready. Wayne then drew a life-size Leopard on a set of cardboards that we pieced together. We then chose a tree behind the camp and hung a real Impala as bait. Each time we tried we would place the Leopard in a different position. About thirty or forty yards away we made a curtain of blankets. Günther would be behind the curtain without seeing the scene in front of him. Günther would be shooting from a standing position with his rifle well supported on a tripod. Each time we changed the Leopard’s position for the next one. I would run the curtain and time the shot, Wayne change the position of the cardboard Leopard.

Everything worked perfectly except the main thing. A time of less than 2 seconds and an accuracy of less than 1 inches. We did this a dozen times until I told him to stop because I saw that the result was getting worse, probably due to the stress it was causing Günther. We stopped everything and I went straight to Günther and congratulated him: “My friend, you are going to get your Leopard. Go rest and tomorrow we will continue to place baits”. I looked at Wayne and he was looking at the sky. Praying? No! My friend is a convinced atheist.

The next day we left early. Wayne was driving, I was sitting next to him, Günther and Bee were in the back seat, and two other helpers were in the back. My German friend was beaming, probably because of his results from the previous day. He was laughing and telling his stories non-stop. I laughed sometimes but Wayne was serious, and every now and then he looked up at Günther and looked at me, shaking his head. He didn’t say anything and didn’t need to, I knew exactly what he was thinking.

At the end of the day, we only had two baits hanging. Using Impalas as bait is not practical and is expensive. An Impala costs 150 USD to make one bait. In addition, you have to hunt the Impala, which can be time-consuming. I then suggested that we buy an old cow for 200 USD, but that it would produce four baits. After agreeing on a price with the owner, Wayne took his Glock .40 and shot the cow indicated by the owner in the forehead. The next day, we would start with four baits to hang.

This activity is not as simple as it may seem. Sometimes you find tracks, sometimes you don’t, and based on your experience, you can imagine a place where the Leopard would like to pass. We had six baits hanging. Two Impalas and four cow baits. Now we had to let the baits start working, or rather, smelling.

The following days, days six and seven, were days with little activity. We checked the six baits to see if there had been any Leopard activity. Nothing. We returned to the camp and then it was party time. John’s “grocery store” still revealed delicious surprises.

All of us went to bed at about 10:00 pm, except Bruce and Lamberto who had had a hit on their bait and were sitting in hapis blind.

The next morning at 4:00 am Wayne woke me up and said that Lamberto had shot a leopard but the animal had run off into the thick forest. It was around 11:00 pm when Lamberto fired a shot at his cat.

They followed the tracks for a while but saw no sign of blood. It was a new moon night and it was completely dark. Although Lamberto was confident in his shot, Bruce decided to go back to camp and wait for daybreak and ask for our help to follow the tracks.

For the first time on this hunt, I took my Double out of the box. I had taken my John Rigby .470 NE, took 4 cartridges, put them in my pocket and went to meet Wayne at the Toyota. Wayne arrived at the same time and was carrying his .460 Weatherby Magnum. The .460 is the most powerful caliber I have ever shot and some Weatherby rifles are very light which makes you feel the recoil very strongly. Bee was also with us to help track the Leopard. We arrived at the point where we entered the thick bush and Bruce and Lamberto were already waiting for us. We were all prepared to follow the trail of a supposedly wounded Leopard.

It is an extremely dangerous operation in which every care is needed so that no one gets hurt either by the Leopard or by a shot from a companion. I loaded my Double with a soft point in the right barrel and a solid point in the left barrel. After a quick conversation, we entered the bush towards the blind. The two trackers in front followed by Lamberto and Bruce, with Wayne on the left side and me on the right side. I had already done this with Buffalo and Leopard and I can say that the adrenaline was high.

Our formation was in the shape of a circular arc and arriving in front of the blind we followed already seeing the signs of the

Leopard. After advancing about 15 meters, Bee saw the first drops of blood and further on a large red stain indicating that the shot had hit the lung. About 10 meters ahead, Bruce caught sight of the Leopard. It was dead. Lamberto’s shot was good, missing the heart by a few centimeters but hitting the lung; in fact, it pierced both lungs.

After loading the Leopard into the Toyota we returned to camp. Wayne and I, with Gunter, returned do the task of checking the baits. One of the baits was partially eaten by a Leopard!

Unfortunately, it ate a lot and probably wouldn’t come back the next day. Even so, Wayne decided to go to the blind with Günther and spend the night in the hope that the Leopard would return. When you have a Leopard that hits the bait, you have to check where it came in and where it left. Check the wind direction and only then decide where to place your blind. I prefer to stay away from the bait to reduce the chances of some small noise alerting the animal.

Nothing! The next day, nothing again. The Leopard didn’t come back. A little discouragement began to set in, with the exception of Günther who kept laughing and telling his incredible stories. We had a bait that I had a lot of faith in. It was on the bank of a river, which was dry at that time of year.

We had hung the bait under a small tree very close to the bank. The small tree hid the bait from vultures. We went there to inspect and see if there was any evidence of a leopard. To our delight, there was. A leopard had been there and nibbled a little, which indicated that it had found the bait at dawn and was probably already full. The footprints around it were huge. The claw marks on the tree were deep. It was clear to us that it had found the bait, an impala, at dawn and already satisfied its hunger, but with all the marks it wanted to make it clear that the meat belonged to him.

Looking across the river bed, we saw that the big challenge would be to find a suitable place for a blind. While on that side of the river we had plenty of vegetation, on the other side we had nothing. I never liked building a very artificial blind, but to do something in this case that looked natural would be a mission. That was what we had, so we rolled up our sleeves and went ahead. Hours later the blind was ready, comfortable and big enough to fit Wayne and Günther.

I crossed the river to see how it looked from the Leopard’s perspective. Perfect! Nothing looked artificial. We attached a fishing line to one of the Impala’s legs and the other across the river we attached to the blind. If anything moved in the Impala it would signal us on the other side. We were running out of time. We headed straight back to camp and once there Wayne and Günther quickly ate something and went back to the blind ready for the night.

They arrived at the blind around 3:00 p.m. They parked the Toyota about 300 meters away and continued on foot. Once inside the blind, Wayne took his Swarovski and began to inspect the bait and its surroundings. The bait was about 70 meters away from the blind. Wayne took the 9.3 x 64, loaded it and positioned it pointed at the bait on the other side of the river. The rifle was quite stable and at the right height for Günther to shoot from a kneeling position. Wayne unlocked the rifle and, looking seriously at Günther, said: “no more talk”. He lay down and began to read his pocket book.

I decided not to go with them to the blind. More than two people waiting increases the possibility of noise.

John had been trying to hunt a good Kudu and so far had not been successful. Bee had talked to some locals about it who told him about a place at the foot of a cliff that looked like a forest. No undergrowth but with many small trees. Actually, thin-trunked trees scattered around where a large Kudu appeared almost every afternoon. I had heard this kind of story in Africa a hundred times and most of them were dreams, or wishful thinking. The same thing in the end. I told John everything and we decided to explore the place. When we got there we saw that the description of the place was accurate.

There really was a forest at the foot of a cliff. It could have been a painting of a forest in Europe, full of leaves on the ground. The cliff was about 12 meters high but difficult to climb. But it was the only place where we could hide and wait for the possible Kudu. So we decided to go ahead. I started climbing, watching very carefully where I placed my hand. I told John to follow me and do the same. Every time I placed my hand, I thought it could be the place of a snake. These rocky outcrops are often frequented snakes. Black Mamba, Cobra, etc.

About 8 meters up there was a small plateau with a huge rock on the edge. In this region it is common to see these incredible formations. It is as if someone had placed it on the top of the cliff. This gave us good cover. I first checked to see if there were any snakes on the plateau. Fortunately, there were none, but there were a few scorpions. The sting of this small animal is rarely fatal to a healthy adult, but quite painful. I removed about four or five with the help of my cap and leaned against the large rock with my back to the small forest below. John followed my steps and did the same. It could be a long wait. Every now and then I checked the forest.

Around 5:00 pm during one of these checks I saw an extraordinary Impala. It was alone and its antlers must have been about 26 inches or more. For this region a record. John had already positioned himself and framed the Impala to shoot, but thinking about the Kudu that he so wanted to hunt, I did not release the shot, thinking that it might be close and would get scared and run away. It was a bad decision on my part. The Impala slowly moved away and the Kudu never showed up.

It was about 5:30 pm when John and I arrived back at camp. John was happy with the adventure and I was upset with my decision regarding the Impala. I had promised Lamberto that I would take him to test his night vision in the bush. To do so, I had asked the guys to place some baits of very rotten meat below a platform we had on a tree near the camp. As soon as I got to the camp, I had a coffee and left with Lamberto for the platform in the tree. The baits had been placed and smelled quite strong. The idea was to see if we could attract some animals like Bush Pig, Hyena, Genet Cat and Honey Badger. The idea was that Lamberto could test his new toy but if he wanted to shoot he could. The equipment really was wonderful. You could see clearly and perfectly. Lamberto lent it to me for a few moments and I watched a Genet Cat on the bait.

Back in the blind, Wayne was finishing one of the chapters of his paperback when suddenly the fishing line sounded like a guitar string. It was still daylight and Wayne imagined that it could have been a Kudu that had crossed the dry river and hit the fishing line with its horns. He slowly stood up and looked through his binoculars. There it was, a monstrous Leopard eating the impala bait!

He looked to the side and saw Günther already kneeling, positioning himself at his rifle. The seconds seemed like minutes at that moment. Wayne said, “shoot”, “shoot” and nothing. Suddenly, “Boom“. The shot

hit the Leopard in the heart and hit the spine, making that fabulous animal fall dead in its tracks. An hour later Wayne asked Günther why it had taken him so long to shoot. He replied laughing: “I was observing through the scope how majestic this animal is.” That’s Günther.

Meanwhile, Lamberto and I had been watching the Genet Cat for almost an hour. We could see it quite clearly when I started to hear the roar of an engine. It was coming towards us from behind. It must have been the Toyota coming to pick us up, but it was only 9 pm and I had scheduled it to pick us up at midnight.

The vehicle stopped, I could hear the door opening and closing and then I started to hear someone coming towards us. “Mr. Parker, we’ve come to pick you up. Wayne is calling you back to camp”. “Did they get the Leopard?” I asked. “Yes, a very big one”. I could barely contain my happiness.

Against all odds, we had managed to do it. When I saw the Leopard in the camp, I looked at Günther and he looked like a child with his Christmas present. He hugged me and laughed and cried. I hugged my friend Wayne and thanked him very much for all his effort. Everyone in the camp exploded in celebration. We took lots of pictures and there was free beer for everyone.

Two very large male Leopards in 10 days of hunting is quite an achievement.

We sat around the campfire, and at my request, the group began to sing the Leopard Song. This song moves me every time I hear it. It tells of a patrol of soldiers during the early colonial wars when Cecil John Rhodes´s columns were fighting the Matabele north of Bulawayo and when the Matabele warriors were surrounding the patrol in the darkness, in order to identify one another, they would call out of the names of their “impi” or unit.

In Wayne’s camps, it has become a tradition to sing this song every time a hunter manages to collect a leopard. The staff place the leopard in front of the fire, sit behind it and first begin to act out the hunt. One of them represents the leopard and the other the hunter. The one representing the hunter incorporates into his representation the mannerisms of the hunter observed during the hunt. In front of them sit the hunter, the PH and occasionally others. All this with lots of beer.

Once the representation is over, they begin to sing the leopard song, “Ingwe“. One of them sings the first note and the main group sings the second. A very primitive drum, sometimes made from a hollowed-out wooden trunk, sets the rhythm. The sound provokes great emotion in me. The drinking continues on both sides of the fire and the song is repeated several times. I have witnessed picturesque scenes at the end when everything is dark and it is difficult to find the bungalow or tent. When I hunted my two leopards, I confess that I had difficulty finding my bungalow.

I have all these moments and the Leopard Song well preserved in my memory: “Ingwe! Ingwe Banile? Ingwe msila, hela ma bala, ingwe msila! Mana lapha, se nkhlume lowe, ingwe msila”. (Leopard !Who is the leopard ? Leopard, with tail, he has spots, leopard, his tail. Wait there ! We wish to speak with you, Leopard, tail)

These si´ndebele words passed down through generations – about a battle fought so long ago, create a haunting mood of Africa, and the beautiful way these Africans sing this song, seemed a perfect end to our successful double leopard hunt.

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