Hunting Stories Archives - Page 12 of 25

Hunting Barbary in Morocco

Mar 7, 2024 | Hunting Stories

Written by Enrich Hugo

Hardly any other wild species poses as many puzzles for zoologists as the Barbary sheep. Can the closer relationship be assigned to the goats or the sheep? Many zoologists place it under a separate genus called Ammotragus. Ammotragus comes from Greek and means sand goat. In common usage we mostly find names like Barbary Sheep, Maned Goat, African Tur and especially Aoudad, a term that comes from the Berber language.

The natural habitat of the Aoudad extends across all of North Africa. From Morocco to Chad to Sudan, the Aoudad has adapted to each different habitat. From the rocky, often snow-capped Atlas Mountains to the extremely arid Nubian Desert, this reddish-brown, horned wild species can be found. It is named after the long throat hairs, which are much more pronounced in males than in females.

After HuntGeo managed to open Sudan to international hunters again after 10 years, where the Aoudad is also native to the Nubian Ibex and the Eritrea Gazelle, my personal focus was of course on the Nubian Ibex and Aoudad. After my successful hunt for the Nubian ibex in Sudan, I managed to hunt a Barbary sheep after three safaris in the Nubian desert. During the first two unsuccessful hunting trips, but also during the third successful hunt, I was able to convince myself that the game density in Sudan is very low and over all the years when there has been no legal and controlled hunting, the Aoudad has been poached very heavily and hardly more to be found in Sudan. I was more as pleased to hear from my partner and friend Renauld in spring 2021, where he informed me that he had finally managed to organize the hunt for Aoudad in Morocco for the first time. For more than 10 years, we have been working intensively on this project, and now we have finally managed to hunt the Barbary sheep in its natural habitat, the Atlas Mountains. Ten permits for one hunting season. Only selected male that are at least 7 years old may be hunted. Renauld achieved another milestone with the import license for its own hunting rifle. Although I only forwarded this message to a few of my closest customers and friends of the possibility of hunting Barbary sheep in Morocco, especially among mountain hunters, spread very quickly and it wasn’t long before all 10 licenses were quickly sold out.

The hunting season in Morocco is set from mid-September to the end of March and the first hunter was already planning to come at the end of September. Unfortunately it was still too hot and the sheep were very high in the mountains. At this point it should be mentioned that the Atlas Mountains stretch over an area of about 2,500 kilometers and separate the coasts of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean Sea from the Sahara. The highly rugged mountains have a very contrasting terrain and changeable climate. The highest elevation is the Toubkal at 4,167 meters. The hunting area is located right in these High Atlas mountains and has an area of more than 100,000 hectares. The Tizi n’ Test Pass at 2,100 meters above sea level is the starting point of our hunt.

The mountains are richly forested and offer the game plenty of protection from the changing climatic conditions. Of course, this advantage for the game does not play into our cards and therefore it makes much more sense to wait for cooler weather, especially snow on the mountain tops. The snow drives the sheep further down where they can still find plenty of food. The Barbary sheep feeds on grass and herbs as well as fresh leaves. The first successful hunters finally returned from Morocco in November. Unfortunately, the Covid pandemic did not stop in Morocco either and King Mohammed VI, the regent of Morocco, ordered the borders to be closed and it was no longer possible to enter or leave the country from December 1st to February 7th. Immediately after the borders were opened, we were able to continue our hunting program very successfully. My personal presence was requested for the last two hunting guests. A request that I am very happy to comply with, as they are two very good friends and long-standing customers of mine. For the Conklin award winner Bela Hidvegi, with whom I have had the privilege of accompanying on many hunting trips, is the Aoudad in its natural habitat, the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, a hunting dream that he would like to realize. But also for my good friend Vladislav Reznik, the Aoudad from North Africa is one of the few sheep species that he has not yet hunted. The Aoudad was introduced to Spain in the early 20th century and from there to North and Central America, where it is still bred and hunted to this day. Hunting in its original, natural habitat is therefore of great importance to many mountain hunters.

My journey to Marrakech is very pleasant. I chose the Spanish Iberia as the airline. No problem with the gun carrying and the flight goes via Madrid to Marrakech. Rached is already waiting for me at Marrakech airport and helps me with the formalities and registering the gun with the airport police. After 40 minutes I’m already at my friend Renauld, who has his private property in Morocco, a little further out and to the south. Only 500 meters away is a comfortable hotel where our guests are accommodated upon their arrival. Right next to a reservoir with fantastic views of the Atlas Mountains. From his terrace, with this incredible view, we discuss the course of the next few days. There have been some shifts in the flight connections of our guests. Vladislav, who originally wanted to fly in with Turkish Airline, had to rebook and take the flight with Qatar Airways. Istanbul was temporarily closed due to heavy snowfall. Bela chose Air France for his flight, which flew in a day earlier. The plan was quickly made. Vladislav Reznik will try his luck hunting the Barbary wild boar for the first two days and will hunt near the orange plantations around Casablanca and Bela will be the first to hunt the Aoudad. The next morning we found out how changeable the weather is. Not much is left of the pleasantly warm 20 degrees from the day before. Rain and a cool 4 degrees await us in the morning. Ahead is a 2 ½ hour drive to the Tizi N Test Pass. According to the weather report, we should expect 10 to 15 centimeters of fresh snow there

Despite the change in weather and the sometimes heavy rain, we can make out the many different facets of the landscape. Very barren sandy hills but also wide green areas with orange and lemon trees, rocky gorges and cliffs overgrown with cedars, pines, oaks and olive trees. The landscape is rounded off with the very typical Berber villages in the middle of the rocky mountains. The clothing of the Berbers is just as typical as the houses. Men usually wear colored, floor-length coats or capes with a pointed hood. For women it is the traditional abaya that is kept very simple. On special occasions, a long dress, the so-called kaftan, is worn which, with its decorations and embroidery, does not require any other accessories. The closer we get to the pass at 2,100 meters above sea level, the less we can believe that we are in Africa. The rain has changed to snowfall and the landscape is much more reminiscent of a deep winter Alpine road in Austria or Switzerland. A small restaurant awaits us at the highest point of the pass road. With heavy snowfall and temperatures high in the single digits below zero, hunting is not really an option and we are all the happier about the open fire in the restaurant. For lunch we have the national dish, the tajine. A delicious stew of meat and vegetables that is prepared in a pointed clay pot and stewed over a long period of time. Then a freshly brewed black tea with fresh mint. For dessert, some of Bela’s hunting experiences are served. Somehow we almost forget that we are pursuing a special goal, the hunt for the Barbary sheep in the High Atlas Mountains.

The snowfall has eased significantly and our local guides employed by the Forest Service have informed us that visibility further down has improved significantly. Like most sheep, the Aoudad are very active in the afternoon foraging and we hope they will take particular advantage of the easing snowfall. In fact, visibility is much better at about 1,700 meters above sea level and we move to a sheltered vantage point and start scanning the

Market

ridges for sheep. Shortly before 7 p.m. we break off and return to the pass. Except for a few female and a young ram, nothing was to be found. The restaurant also has a small, brick guest house where we will spend the night. After a good dinner and some good anecdotes from Bela and Renauld, we treat ourselves to a few hours of sleep before we continue the next morning. During the night it continued to snow and gave us another 15 centimeters of fresh snow. Dense fog, which also envelops the mountains below, does not allow a hunt and we just have to wait. Like yesterday, the fog only clears again in the afternoon and we try our luck again. In the last few days before the snowfall, forest workers have seen some Aoudad at work. Although the ascent to this position is not easy, Bela still wants to try. The first hundred meters of altitude can be managed quickly with the help of donkeys and mules, but after that the ascent becomes too dangerous with the help of our four-legged friends and we continue on foot. It is already 5 p.m. when we reach the place where the forest workers saw the sheep before the snowfall.

As with every mountain hunt, we start to search the terrain with binoculars and spotting scopes. As we prepare for our descent, barbary sheep suddenly appear out of nowhere. First there are two, a short time later there are already four and a few minutes later we have a group of twelve sheep in front of us. There is a ravine and a distance of 400 meters between us and the Barbary sheep on the opposite slope. Two ram stand out from the rest. The difference in size between the mane and the horns of these two and those of the rest of the group can be clearly seen. Unfortunately, we only have a short time to enjoy the sight of the sheep. Firing a shot is out of the question. It’s already too late and we have to hurry to reach the vehicle before sunset. The sight of the sheep and the fact that the weather forecast promises better weather for tomorrow makes us hope for the best tomorrow.

We go early to our bed room because tomorrow after breakfast we’ll be on our way to return to the same place of today. The weather in the morning is also much better. The clouds are still hanging low, but it is snowing only a little and the snow-free breaks are getting longer. Already at 10 a.m. we are at the place where we saw the sheep yesterday and today everything goes much faster. It is less than half an hour before the same group of yesterdays emerge again from the shelter of the oaks and cedars. For our part, we use this tree cover to stalk closer to the sheep. At 250 meters the time has come. Bela has a very good view of the strongest ram in the group and a good rifle rest. He uses my Steyr Tactical in caliber 300 WinMag and a Steiner scope with a ballistic turret.

The distance of 250 meters is set quickly and Bela unlocks the gun. Seconds later the shot breaks and the Aoudad breaks fatally hit in the shot. We wait a few more minutes and then make our way to the dead ram. Now we can admire the harvest ram in detail. Even the renewed snowfall is ignored and Bela and the entire team are overjoyed. After a few memory photos, we make our way back. The snowfall has become heavier again and the well-being and health of our hunting guest has top priority. In the late afternoon we are back at our guest house. Vladislav and his companion Evgeny are already waiting there. Together with our friend Alexander, who guided both of them to the Barbary wild boar, all the experiences of the last few days are exchanged over dinner and it is already after midnight when we finally fall into our beds. Tired but satisfied.

The next day Alexander takes over our successful Aoudad hunter Bela and drives him back to Marrakech where Bela is now trying his luck on a wild boar. I’ll stay with Renauld and accompany Vladislav on his hunt for his Barbary Sheep. The weather has changed and the sky is almost cloudless. The Atlas Mountains show their different face and we look forward to the upcoming hunting day. Three people from Renauld’s have been out since the early hours of the morning and are scouting the area where we want to hunt today. While we were still having our breakfast, we received the message from the scouting team. A group of seven Aoudad was sighted. We get ready immediately and a few minutes later we are already in the car and on our way to the agreed meeting point. Our scouts are giving Renauld and myself a brief overview of the situation. After only 30 minutes of walking along a snow-covered forest path, we reach a small platform from where we can already see the sheep.

They are on the opposite slope, 600 meters away from us and about 150 meters above us. Together we think about how we can do the best stalk. Cover is plentiful, but the sometimes deep snowpack has its pitfalls. Our stalk begins when we first try to compensate for the difference in altitude. We need a little more than an hour until we are on the same level as the sheep, who don’t move much and let themselves be warmed up by the sun. After another 30 meters of altitude, we now continue our stalk horizontally. Again and again we stop and watch the sheep, which are now slightly below us. Some just remain and others pluck the leaves of the surrounding bushes. We manage to stalk them unnoticed up to a distance of 150 meters. From our location we have a very good overview of the whole group of Barbary sheep. It doesn’t take long for us to select the best ram. He stands alone on a rocky outcrop. It almost looks like he’s overseeing his little kingdom from his throne. Vladislav already has his sights set on him but for now he only shows himself from the front and Vladislav is waiting for his broadside. Moving does not appear to be one of his forte and will test our patience. Finally the long-awaited turn to the right. Now Vladislav has the desired position of the Barbary sheep and he won’t let this chance go away and the shoot break. The ram immediately jumps a few meters further down the valley where he remains lying in the snow, fatally wounded. It’s almost devoutly quiet here.

No one says a word and all eyes are on the ram that has been harvest . It’s hard to describe the emotion of that moment, but the hunter’s wet eyes speak volumes. The first to break this silence is Isbar, the fox terrier from Renauld that always accompanies us. With his barking, he just wants to let us know: Let me finally go to the ram I’ve killed! Of course, not only he but also the shooter now wants to pay his last respects to the Aoudad. The rest is routine as always. A few trophy photos and then the descent and care of the ram that was killed.

Hunting for Aoudad in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco is something very special. A very demanding mountain hunt in a wonderful landscape. With many new impressions, memories and emotions along with fantastic trophies in our luggage, we start our journey home and were able to convince ourselves again that ethical and controlled hunting is a major part for conservation of our wildlife.

One for the Road

Mar 7, 2024 | Hunting Stories, News

A Masai homestead near the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania. The grass hut is perfect for the climate.

By Terry Wieland

A Tale of Three Buffalo

The things that stick with you

In Horn of the Hunter, Robert Ruark describes two Cape buffalo he took on his first safari, in 1951, in (then) Tanganyika with Harry Selby. The first was wounded and gave the pair a hell of a time until he finally succumbed. The second, which had much bigger and more massive horns, was also wounded, and disappeared into a dense thicket.

Selby and Ruark looked at each other, then sat down to smoke a cigarette. As the minutes wore on, Ruark became more and more anxious about what was to come. Then Selby invited him to accompany him as he went after the buffalo — a serious compliment as you know if you’ve ever been in that situation. Ruark steeled himself, checked his .470, and off they went. The tracking took some time. It probably seemed much longer than it was, but that’s the way these things work, as they crept along, expecting a charge at any second.

Finally, they came upon the buffalo, dead in its tracks, facing away. He had died as he fled, and not even contemplated a classic m’bogo ambush. Ruark noted that his horns were bigger, but “it’s the first one, the smaller one, that I have on my wall.”

Forty years later, I faced a similar situation on a two-part safari that began in Tanzania, hunting with Robin Hurt, and ended in Botwana, hunting with Tony Henley. In the first instance, Robin and I were waist-deep in the Moyowasi swamps when we came upon a herd of buffalo. I was carrying a .416 Weatherby, made a lucky shot, and a big bull went down and stayed down while the rest of the herd splashed off. It’s my only one-shot kill on a buffalo.

A week later, in the sand and thornbush around the Okavango, I wounded a bull with a shaky shot – he left, we waited, then we followed. Like Ruark, I was steeling my nerve, carrying the Weatherby like a quail gun, anticipating mayhem. Only it didn’t turn out that way. After half an hour, we spotted the bull’s hind end through the leaves. He was about 50 yards away, I anchored him with a shot at the base of his tail that smashed his spine, and I then finished him off at point-blank range with several more. He certainly didn’t die easily — adrenalized and angry Cape buffalo soak up lead like a sponge — but nor did he try to get even. I was either vastly relieved or greatly disappointed, depending on the state of my whisky intake, but honesty compels me to conclude it was mostly relief.

But, again like Ruark, there was a feeling of having been cheated of my moment to prove something.

Three years later, I found myself back in Tanzania, hooked up with a new safari company set up by an American and staffed by a couple of professional hunters from Zimbabwe — Gordon Cormack and Duff Gifford. Gordon is now dead, I’m told, and Duff is plying his trade somewhere in northern Australia. This was a new kind of safari in a country newly liberated from crackpot socialism and embracing free enterprise with joyous cries. There were safari camps that could be rented, on concessions that were eagerly snapped up by Arusha businessmen who couldn’t tell an elephant from an elevator.

Original Trophy Bonded Bear Claw, recovered from the buffalo. It entered the skull through the forehead & smashed through 18 inches of spine before being deflected down into the neck. The recovered bullet weighs 419 grains — 84% weight retention.

Wieland with his Mount Longido Cape buffalo. The rifle is a post- ‘64 Model 70 in .458 Winchester, loaded with 500-grain Trophy Bonded Bear Claws.

We decamped from Jerry’s ostrich-and-flower farm outside Arusha to a camp at the base of Mount Longido, put together a makeshift mountaineering expedition, and set out to climb. Longido is a long-extinct volcano which, I am told, in its heyday dwarfed Kilimanjaro. Now it’s worn down into a vast bowl with walls hundreds of feet high, a much higher promontory at one end covered in rain forest, with families of Masai occupying the huge crater.

Our expedition included Jerry, Duff, a game scout, the game scout’s two vassals (one to carry his rusty single-shot shotgun, the other to carry his briefcase) and several trackers and camp staff. We had no real camping equipment, but we were only going to be up there a day or, at most, two. I was carrying a borrowed Winchester Model 70 in .458, belonging to Jerry. My ammunition was his hot handloads using the then-new but always excellent Trophy Bonded Bear Claw bullets. Our other rifle was a .416 Rigby that belonged to Duff’s late father-in-law, Allan Lowe, who carryied it several years before when he was killed in Zimbabwe by an elephant.

We topped the outer wall, traversed the crater, and began a long climb up into the rain forest, where we set up camp.

The thinking was that the crater was known to hold some Cape buffalo, mainly old bulls who had left the herd, voluntarily or otherwise, and now dwelt up here in lonely splendor, contemplating past glories. Our job was to find one, which was not easy on the steep, rocky mountainsides, cut by dongas and overhung with thick brush.

After a miserable rainy night, we emerged to find our staff huddled around a fire, trying to ward off the shakes brought on by malaria and damp chill. Breakfast was cursory, to say the least, and since our colleagues showed no eagerness to leave the fire, Duff, Jerry and I took our rifles and binoculars and went to look for a vantage point from which to scan the mountainside. This was made more difficult by the early morning clouds that shrouded the peak, drifting in and out like thick fog.

I was perched on a rocky outcrop. Jerry and Duff were down the way, glassing the other direction. The clouds opened for an instant, just long enough to spot the tail end of a buffalo disappearing into some brush. Duff and I left Jerry on my look-out and descended into a long clearing, toward where I’d seen the bull. It had to be a bull, since there were no other buffalo up here. Duff was off to the right, checking some sign, when the bull appeared out of a thicket 75 yards away. I sat down and put the crosshairs behind his shoulder. At the shot, he made a dash and dropped from sight into a donga. Then all was still.

Duff and I crept toward where he’d disappeared. What we found was an odd situation. A thick canopy of brush turned the donga into a tunnel. A trail led down into it on the far side, where the bull had disappeared, then emerged from the brush to climb up on our side. Through the brush, we could hear the bull’s labored breathing. We found a place to stand with a dense thorn bush on one side and the donga’s steep side on the other — just room for both of us, but not for both to shoot, depending on where the bull appeared. He was not ten yards away, but invisible, and his breathing became harsher.

“We’ll give him ten minutes,” Duff said. “If he doesn’t come out, we’ll go in.”

We could hear the buffalo. The buffalo could hear us. At any time, he could get up and walk down his tunnel – which he surely knew intimately – completely unseen. He stayed put.

The minutes crawled by — seven, eight, nine — and at ten minutes, almost to the second, we heard the bull heave himself to his feet and begin to move. He burst out of the brush and up the trail. I fired one shot into his black hide, then a second as he turned sharply, rounding on me at a distance of a few feet. Duff was behind me, unable to shoot and no place to go. I shoved the last round into the chamber, stuck the muzzle in the bull’s face, and pulled the trigger just as I was jumping back, trying to get out of the way so Duff could shoot.

It was not necessary. The bull dropped, four feet away, and came to rest on the edge of the bank.

*****

African veterans reading this will, undoubtedly, have questions. Where was the game scout and our trackers? (Back by the fire, trying to keep warm.) Why did Duff not shoot when the bull first appeared? (Problems with his rifle, which I will try to explain in the ammunition column of this issue.) Where did your first bullet hit the buffalo? (Both lungs. He was slowly drowning in his own blood.)

It’s difficult to sum up my feelings about that bull, because he was so admirable. He could have escaped, yet he crouched there, facing back toward his trail, waiting for us to come in after him. As his lungs filled up and breathing became increasingly difficult, he came out of that donga with one thought, one plan, and that was vengeance.

We pieced it together later, from the tracks and the pool of blood. Having dashed into the donga after the first bullet, he left the trail, moved up the donga into a cul-de-sac, turned around and lay down, facing the trail — the only way we could get in. And there he waited as his time ran out.

For those who care about such things, his worn-down horns measured 43 inches, side to side. In his prime, they probably reached 48 inches. But that’s inconsequential.

These events took place almost 30 years ago now. The skull and horns disappeared in the dissolution of the safari company. No idea what happened to the rifle. I have a few photographs and one bullet, the Bear Claw that went between his eyes and tore up 18 inches of spine. One of the trackers dug it out for me as another was building a fire and putting chunks of the backstrap on sticks, to roast. It was like eating India rubber.

But that’s not what I remember most. What I remember is that buffalo’s valor, and how I came to love him.

Piece of Paradise Revived

Mar 7, 2024 | Hunting Stories

It was 1994 and I was a very eager and energetic young professional hunter, under the employ of a south African-based outfitter.

We were always eager to get “out” and into wilder areas in adjoining countries, places that seemed “unknown” and exotic to us.

When the late Phillip Nel, asked me to do some freelance hunts for him in Mozambique, it seemed too good to be true. Mozambique at that time was very exotic and unknown to me; Phillip managed to lease Coutada 10 from the Mozambique government, and was just establishing a hunting concession after the long civil war.

Phil Nel and Anton Marais were some of the pioneers in getting the Marameu region started up again, after the long and devastating civil war.

Phillip Nel had a base farm in South Africa, in the Soutpansberg, and that was where we met up to fly in their private plane to the area in Mozambique. Things were just different then, there were no commercial flights in and out of Beira. Officials were quite stand-offish and looked at us with suspicion and disdain, and when you presented a rifle for Import, you were a terrorist.

River crossing in 1994.

Buffalo from Mahimba in 1994.

I went to camp a few days before our hunters arrived; both were South African nationals, and really nice guys. I have lost contact with them and could not obtain their permission, so we decided to cover their faces in the photos attached, in order to respect their privacy.

I tried to familiarize myself with the area by asking my employer some questions about what to expect, but all I really got was, “We do not know the area very well ourselves, and also do not know what to expect.”

The main quarry was buffalo, but we could basically take anything that we found, if we found anything.

En route to the Marameu, we had to land at a place called Mahimba, just north of the Zambezi River, where I met a veteran hunter, Brian Smith.

Brian greeted us at the airstrip, extremely sunburnt, and wearing flipflop shoes. He never stopped complaining about the long grass… Later on I got to know Brian a lot better and reminisced about that first meeting, which he never remembered.

I arrived in camp in a very wild place; even the odd local villager we encountered seemed to not know much about European people.

The first few days I spent driving around with one of Phil’s local PHs getting to know the lie of the land and looking for buffalo with his client. It was evident that this was wild country and that hunting was real. Game was a bit scarce, but I was amazed by all the bushpig we saw almost daily, and in daytime, something I was not accustomed to.

There were a few sable, some reedbuck, waterbuck and of course buffalo deep inside the swamp, that required long stalks on hands and knees. In one of the buffalo photos you’ll notice the torn part on our client’s jeans – those pants were almost new when he started.

Lots of mosquitoes and hot sun was also just the order of the day.

After a few days of me scouting, my two hunters arrived, and I had my own Land Cruiser to go with and free range.

We basically just picked a direction, eastwards, towards the swamp and looked for the Egrets, “white birds that accompany large herds of animals,” I was told. Not much has changed even today, 29-odd years later.

The safari went extremely well. We got two good buffalo bulls early in the hunt and then just explored and hunted for plain game.

On one of the days, I was driving between the flood plain and forest, where it makes lots of smaller open areas when we spotted a lion running across our path and into some thickets.

Buffalo 1998

It was totally unexpected, and I did not know what else to do, other than to ask my hunter, “Do you want to shoot a lion?”

“How much is it?”

“I don’t know but you could always negotiate that later,” I told him.

Decision made and we went after the male. We spotted his eyes peeking at us from some long grass and thicker vegetation where he was crouched. I told my hunter to just shoot between the eyes, and voila! the lion was still. Just like that, no glory, no hero hunt.

Camp 1994

Camp 2023

We walked up to the magnificent cat and admired him. After a few seconds I realized he was still breathing and the breaths were becoming stronger, so the client shot him again in the chest which sealed the deal. On later inspection we found that his first shot went a bit high and the angle only stunned the lion. Things could have turned out very differently.

Up until then we had done much better than expected, I think a bit to the dismay of the resident PH. We were standing around our lion back at the skinning shed when the other party arrived back from their hunt. They spotted us and drove over to us.

The look on the resident PH’s face was something to behold. He just looked at me and said

“A f–king Lion.” That was it, no congratulations, no well done, no wtf.

That evening around the campfire was different, there were big congratulations. At the time there was an estimated 20 to 30 lions only.

Now we are in 2023 and I just completed another hunt in the Marameu, Coutada 11, managed by Zambezi Delta Safaris, Mark Haldane, and what a transformation.

Area 11 is by far my favorite area to hunt for the tiny guys. Red duiker, suni and blue duiker are so numerous that they are like a rat infestation. Not to mention the buffalo, reedbuck, hartebeest, sable – the list just goes on.

I recently read a article by Craig Boddington where he mentions the number of 3000 buffalo after the war, to the now 30 000. This all happened in a mere 25-odd years.

Hunting for plains game is almost like going to Walmart – they are numerous and bigger than elsewhere.

Seeing an area almost decimated return to what it is today, is such a nice success story, and the fact that it was done entirely through hunting and hunters makes it so much more sweet.

Hunting buffalo in Area 11 is pleasant, you can choose. Go into the swamp for a morning, or hunt for one on dry land in the forest, they are there.

Going into the swamp means getting into Zambezi Delta’s swamp vehicles, driving, floating or whatever you want to call it, deep into the formerly impenetrable regions, and look for the birds.

Once located, you load up and the crawl is on. Exhilarating but still fresh when you start.

Once you connect with a good bull, and you will, the swamp vehicle can get to you and load the whole carcass. No meat goes to waste, and you will return to camp mostly long before dark, to enjoy an ice-cold beer.

Buffalo 2023

Obviously, you have your harder days, but the numbers of game you will encounter en route in as well as out make all the aches and pains go away.

Even the lion numbers now have increased, and it is not unusual to encounter them more often. Their numbers are approaching 100 and rising fast. Cheetahs and elephant are all making a comeback.

I am in the very fortunate position to have seen the area then, and also now, something I cherish and love to share with other avid outdoorsmen.

Transport 2023

Waterbuck 2023

The First Lion

Feb 6, 2024 | Hunting Stories, Uncategorized

He’s roaring fear,

You’re stupid if you’re not afraid,

He’s built to destroy,

That’s how he was made.

See the tail flicker,

A single black weave,

See his mane waver,

In that soft breeze.

Hear his call,

It shatters the quiet,

Hear that first note,

Of the bush’s wild riot.

Look at his steps,

Don’t step where he goes,

He owns this wilderness,

As anyone wise knows.

Fight not his anger,

Contain not his power,

Track with the wisdom,

Of a man’s final hour.

Rejoice not when he falls,

But pay the King respect,

Majesty never truly dies,

It is their spirit you can never get.

By Kendal-Ray Kaschula

It was around June or July when my first opportunity at a lion hunt came up. I was sixteen, wet behind the ears, and absolutely clueless as to what hunting lion would involve, but when the chance arose, I couldn’t have been quicker in grabbing my rifle.

The lion in question was hovering around one of the ranch’s sections, catching cattle and causing mayhem in general and so, with a PAC permit in tow, we hung a few baits in the hope that we could shoot by use of a blind, but wherever it had come from had left it with more intelligence than we could refute and so every bait was left untouched, despite its’ walking withing ten yards of each.

My father-who was my long-time hunting partner-and I were discussing maybe using a caller when a call came via the ranch’s radio network that it had killed another cow, and the carcass had been left with more than enough meat for it to return the following night.

So, without hesitation and sure that this was our shot, dad and I, along with a few workers from the property, went out at lunch time-with the intent that building a blind in the heat of the day would cause our scent to rise quicker, and hopefully be completely gone by nightfall-and proceeded to build said blind, way, way up in a mopane tree. Due to having only a few hours to erect our tree blind, I can’t say it was the safest, especially after hauling up not just ourselves, but also a large car battery to run the rheostat off of, should it be required. However, we held our ground until the early hours of the night, our ears pricked for any sound of crunching or yanking at the carcass which was sixty to seventy yards away and in full view of my .375 scope.

Generally, lions will return to a bait-and especially a kill-that they’ve been feeding on quite early, seeing as of all the cats they tend to be the least shy, but the same skill that prevented our particular lion from eating our baits also kept him away from his kill, but undoubtedly hiding nearby as we discovered the next day, when, after returning to the carcass, we found his large tracks trekking through the sand on top of our car tire marks from the night before. These we followed to about three or four yards off the carcass where he had stood, most likely sniffed around, and then turned and promptly walked back out.

With all our attempts so far a fail, we then went and found a clearing at the base of a Gomo (rocky hill) in the area where it was staying and opted for a caller as a large ditch effort.

Perched on the back of a cruiser, I held my .375, dad held a spotlight-even though the moon was full there were a few clouds drifting around-and Tracker stood behind me.

Unfortunately, the section we were on isn’t full of open spaces, and so even the small clearing we had managed to find only put us sixty yards from the caller and that was with it being backed into duiker berry bushes.

It was something to six in the evening when we started playing, going through distress calls and even a few hyena whoops, hoping to create the sounds of a freshly-made kill.

We called for nearly an hour, and after about thirty minutes my ears-being the youngest on the cruiser-picked up the sound of crunching leaves to my right.

“Dad,” I said, “I can hear it walking next to us.”

All three of us searched the brush surrounding us with keen eyes by use of the moonlight, not wanting to flick the spotlight on just yet and perhaps scare away the cat if he was nearby, but despite our best efforts, we couldn’t see a single thing.

After a few minutes the walking sounds faded off, and it was nearly seven when I got ready to tell Tracker to run fetch the speaker because we obviously weren’t having any luck, when suddenly, there it was.

He strode into the clearing like he didn’t even know the cruiser was there, though there was no way he could have missed it, and just kept walking across.

“It’s here,” I whispered, already leaning over the roof of the car and looking through my scope. I picked it up easy enough in the moonlight, so when dad flicked on the spotlight it was a second of silence before my shot rang out.

The lion let out a growl, jumping high in the air as it curled over before plummeting into the bush with a crash and a bang that was followed by immediate silence.

Now, I couldn’t tell you how I knew the shot wasn’t good, especially since I had put the shot right behind the shoulder, but I just had one of those feelings that a fellow hunter will understand. It wasn’t a good shot, and dad wasn’t keen on any of us tracking it in the dark, so home we came.

Luckily, another section of the ranch had a manager who was a fully qualified PH and his friend, another PH, was with him. So, dad gave them a call and early next morning out we go, and in the back of the cruiser is Tracker and my two up and coming hunting dogs-Remy and Charlie.

Technically, hounds are leopard dogs, but feline is feline and we needed all the help we could get. We got back to the paddock early morning, and after a bit of walking around the track was picked up by the PH’s trackers.

After a bit of grabbing guns and counting bullets, and, of course, one of the Professional Hunters having to convince my dad that he should let me join the tracking party because how else was I going to learn? We were off.

To begin with we left the hounds on the car with one guy, and the rest of us went in, detecting very quickly that the lion was wounded and bleeding out both sides.

We’d been tracking for about an hour, maybe more, through thick scrub, when Tracker pulled up the other trackers and pointed ahead, but whatever he saw was long gone. What he saw? My wounded lion. However, since they hadn’t seen it as well, the others were quick to tell him that it was nothing but a jackal and so we carried on, unaware that my wounded cat was up and moving just in front.

We followed it for a good three hours, the sun climbing higher, and despite the PH’s wishes for it to charge by us pushing it from behind, we either weren’t tracking fast enough to catch up, or it chose to just keep going, probably because it was a younger male and not confident enough to launch its own attack.

Eventually, it’s explained to them that if they want the hounds, then the hounds must be used because it was getting too hot for them to be able to work. Hounds struggle to work in the heat, and even though it was late winter, it was the Lowveld, and that was still far too hot, even at barely ten am.

A discussion arose at this statement, as some of the group were unsure about the dogs’ capabilities, and if it would therefore be worth the effort.

“They’ll catch,” I said, speaking up, “they’re my dogs and I trained them, and I know them. Remy will catch it one time.”

And so, it was decided.

We sent the trackers-my own among them-to fetch the dogs, while the rest of us waited under a tree. At that point we had lost the lion’s track which was part of the incentive of bringing in the hounds, but while we were waiting one of the Hunters had to answer a call of nature, and, as luck would have it, his bush of choice was right beside a fresh spot of blood. The lion had doubled back.

When the hounds got in, they were, as always, chomping at the bit-or yanking at the leashes, so to say-and no sooner did I lead Remy to the blood than her whole demeanor changed as she slipped into ‘tracking mode’ her nose clearly picking up the scent.

“Go track Remy,” I told her, unclipping the leash, and off she went, but she’d barely gone out before she came trotting back, hair up and nervous. She’d never hunted a lion before, but instincts told her that it wasn’t to be trifled with. Now, as crazy as this sounds, me and the hounds have an understanding and so, I spoke to her, dropping to my haunches and taking her face in my hands, petting her all over. “It’s okay Remy….go out. Go track.” And off she went, only to come back again, drawing some very interesting looks from the PH’s, but I did the same thing, sending her off once more, and that time, she never looked back.

The trackers started to track with her, but having to work around people always throws her out. “Can we hang back please?” I asked, “She needs space.”

In hardly any time at all she was well and truly off, blowing the life out of the track which is when Charlie was released, and not fifteen minutes later, they started singing.

They were baying the lion.

We all took off, me hugging the side of one PH, the other far in front, and my dad bringing up the back. “To protect our tail,” he said.

We could hear the lion grunting, the sound changing as it moved. The dogs were holding, then losing, then holding it, but they only moved twice, finally keeping it trapped on the top of an anthill.

I hugged the side of the PH who was in the middle of the chase, the other far ahead, and we were almost caught up when a shot rang out, splitting the ongoing sound of the dogs’ booing.

A minute later we pulled up beside the PH in front in time to find the lion swiping at the hounds, but the dogs were no fools and stayed far out of reach. The PH handed me his rifle and I fired again, though by then the cat was pretty much done, and down it went in a heap.

For a second there was only that beautiful silence that comes in the first few moments of a Dangerous Game Hunt when you all stand and evaluate with astonishment that no one has been hurt and the animal is down, and then, as though in sync, you all erupt into cheers and whoops and smiles which are coupled with handshakes and hugs, and you know-in that place deep inside where all the best memories live-that you will never forget this moment.

I ran to the hounds, elated at their success, while trackers swarmed, and the hunt, hounds-everything really-was celebrated as pictures were taken, a feat in their own right when it came to pulling in the dogs and trying to get them to keep still.

Eventually, we loaded up the lion-a younger male with a tank of a body-and adding the dogs and ourselves to the back of one of the cruisers, set off for home.

It was in a quiet moment, when it was just the two of us, that Tracker gave me another reason to laugh. He told me that when he had gone back to fetch the dogs with the other trackers, they had voiced their doubts to him-in no uncertain terms-about whether or not the hounds could even catch the lion.

“Please,” he’d scoffed, “they do it all the time.”

Only, me and him both knew they’d hardly done leopards by then.

“And what were you going to say if we failed?” I asked, choking on my laughter at his expression of defiance that anyone could have dared to pass something remotely like a criticism about our beloved hounds.

“We don’t think of that,” I was informed, that look still firmly in place despite my own laughter, “we just don’t think of that.”

Big Gun for the Little Lady

Feb 6, 2024 | Hunting Stories

It was mid-morning on 14 May 1973, when the King Air carried my friends and fellow Michiganders, Joyce and Erwin Wilson, with all their gear, including hunting equipment and food. The plane landed on a dirt runway in Caprivi, the northeastern corner of Namibia. The pilot had deployed the reverse thrust levers a bit late after the nose wheel had already touched down. He then realized the aircraft was quickly running out of the runway, so he raised the thrust levers to the full upright position, putting the engines in maximum reverse thrust. That, coupled with his feathering the brakes with increasing pressure, stopped the King Air within 20 yards of the runway’s end.

Caprivi is a salient strip of land protruding from the northeastern corner of Namibia. Botswana surrounds it to the south, and Angola and Zambia to the north. Namibia, Botswana, and Zambia meet at a single point at the eastern tip, an area Erwin first hunted in the late 50s with his brother Ed.

Greeting them was a long-time friend and professional hunter Peter Becker with one of his MaYeyi trackers. There was no terminal, no petrol pump, and surprise – no help, and they transferred all the luggage and hunting gear into the Rover that Peter had driven to the plane. When everyone was seated, Peter handed Joyce and Erwin a Hansa pilsener, saying, “Karibu (Swahili for welcome). We now have a 10-kilometer drive to base camp over a very bumpy road that will make that landing you had a cakewalk.”

The previous day, Peter out scouting with his lead tracker, had seen fresh hoof prints of Cape buffalo, Snycerus caffer, close to a known watering hole, where they had set up base camp.

Once there and settled into their assigned tent, Joyce joked, “Well, not the Ritz, but It’s not bad. Where’s the shower?”

Erwin and the PH with his head tracker headed out later that afternoon to check if the herd was still there, approximately nine kilometers north and west of camp. On the drive back, as they crested a small hill, they spotted a group of cheetahs watching the grasslands, searching the horizon for prey.

Over a late meal with drinks, discussing the next day’s plan under a star-studded sky, Peter pointed out the constellation often seen in the Southern Hemisphere, known as the Southern Cross.

At 6:30 after onbyt (breakfast in Afrikaans), Peter and the Wilsons climbed into the Rover and, following the old Toyota truck with two of Peter’s trackers, drove several kilometers, scouting different sets of tracks before they located where the herd of buffalo had moved the previous evening. By the time they spotted them it was close to the day’s heat, so they let the herd bed down in some shade for a mid-day siesta.

Peter suggested they should not push the herd, but just find some shade themselves, and wait for the day’s heat to pass. They had located a herd, and, as Erwin had noted, “A meaningful male may well be amongst it.” It’s all about the size of the buffalo’s lethal horns and its age that is relevant. A herd of that size should have a couple of Dagga Boys peripheral to its location.

It was a beautiful time of day, the expansive views highlighting cirrus clouds over the surrounding savanna; a rolling grassland interspersed with the occasional baobab tree; elephant grass, and Acacia trees whose leaves are favored by giraffes, along with jackalberry, a large dioecious evergreen tree that frequently grows on termite mounds. After a three-hour break that included lunch and a nap for the hunters, the temperature started dropping and, more importantly, the wind was still in their faces, a necessity if their stalk was to be successful. After a short trek, they again spotted the herd. The animals had arisen and started moving.

Joyce, Erwin, Peter and the head tracker were downwind about 400 yards in some cover, but they needed to close the distance for a reliable shot. Finally, after what seemed like a long hour of painstaking, silent movement to check the wind and placement of the lumbering herd, Peter got Joyce and Erwin within 120 yards after spotting two old mature bulls with several tick birds on their rumps.

Peter had chosen a tiny patch where the grasses had parted so the five-foot-two Joyce could get a shot off the shooting sticks he had quickly put in place.

“The big one on the left with an imposing boss would be at least 700 kgs,” the PH told her in a low voice, and suggested she wait for her shot. As the buffalo slowly moved, presenting a side profile, Peter whispered, “Aim just above the front right shoulder and slowly squeeze the trigger.” Sighting her rifle with its Griffen & Howe custom Peep Sight mounted on the pre- ‘64 Winchester 458 Win Magnum (which had the stock cut down by Erwin to fit her petite body), Joyce took a breath, exhaled, and pulled the trigger.

Her shot hit the bull exactly where Peter had directed. It stumbled and turned 180 degrees, and limply ran off, creating a whirlwind of trailing dust as the sun illuminated a cloud of tiny fireflies following it. Peter was sure of a good hit as he watched through his binoculars and saw the big animal heave and lurch, a telltale sign of a well-placed shot. Then, cautiously walking to where the buffalo had stood, the group heard a lone bull groaning not too far away. Everyone was on high alert at this point, as a wounded Cape buffalo is one of the most dangerous of game, very unpredictable, and that will fight to their last breath, an instinct instilled in them since the dawn of time.

Peter and one of his trackers, noticing good blood on the ground, started to slowly follow the blood trail and move toward the sound of the groaning buffalo, with Joyce and Erwin following, all guns raised and in the ready in case of a sudden charge. The only other sound they heard was their beating hearts as they slowly and cautiously moved to the dying beast. Then they sighted him, down, and they waited as he expired.

His magnificent horns extended from a significant boss, slightly curving about seven inches above the big beast’s head. From point to point, there were just over 26 inches between those lethal points, as if the horns warned, “Lion beware.”

Before they returned to the vehicles, Peter and Erwin oversaw the big brute’s gralloching. Once gutted, they began trimming the backstrap and hind legs for their needs. On the return to camp, Joyce took a backward-facing seat, allowing a view of the Chobe River as the waning yellow sun highlighted its undulating flow. The drive back was, in some respects, a reflective journey. The thrill of a successful hunt, coupled with the challenge and teamwork between all, filled Joyce and Erwin with a deep appreciation of the vastness of Africa, and the fragile balance between nature, human encroachment, and the needs of the indigenous tribes.

Back at base camp, the hunters had welcome showers before sitting round the fire with their drink of choice and reminisced about the day’s events while waiting for dinner which started with a toast and a glass of celebratory champagne – a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Yellow Label that Erwin had brought on their flight, a favorite of Joyce.

The main meat dish was thin slices of backstrap from their buffalo, chicken fried with a dollop of Peco de Galloand, and cuts of guinea fowl. Afterwards they enjoyed nightcaps as they discussed the wonders of Africa and their privilege to have returned to the enchanted continent.

The hunt planned for the next day was for a greater kudu, Tragelaphus strepsiceros. Peter had heard from one of his trackers that kudu were spotted in bushveld lowlands south and west of their camp. So, at 6:30 a.m. the following morning, the PH, head tracker and the Wilsons, drove approximately 10 km to the area. They checked several tracks and finally located a small group 400 yards away, including a couple of males.

However, the two males seen were not trophy size, so Erwin declined. On the drive back, Erwin and Joyce bagged two warthogs, providing meat for the dedicated tribe members.

***

Erwin had taken his first big-game hunting trip in 1956, again with his brother Ed as his companion. Ed and Erwin traveled from Michigan to Kenya – no easy feat in those days, as traveling from London to Nairobi required a minimum of two fuel stops. The Wilson brothers had hired a rookie Kenyan PH named Peter Becker as their guide. Becker was even younger than 31-year-old Erwin at the time but had already started to gain a significant reputation as a tracker, thanks to his efforts during the Mau Mau rebellion a few years earlier. (In fact, Becker’s tracking talents were so impressive that he was presented with a medal from King George VI in England for services rendered to the Crown, shortly before the king’s death.) Erwin formed a fast friendship with Becker and would go on to hunt with him for decades after that first trip.

Erwin joined the Shikar Safari Club in 1964 after learning about the club and received an outstanding achievement award for a record book, Alaskan moose and caribou.

In September 1970, Safari Club members arranged a hunt on the Shah of Iran’s private hunting estate, where Erwin shot a sizeable Urial ram. Joyce noted that the hosted dinner that evening was a 5-star event, with caviar “to die for.”

Shikar Club members had set up another adventure with the U.S. State Department to bring American astronauts Jim Lovell and Stu Roosa (also a Shikar member) on a goodwill trip to the Central African Empire. The coordinated program was named the, “People to People Sports Program.” First Emperor Bokassa, head of the C.A.E., lavished his celebrity guests with gifts and remarkable local experiences. Then he took the entire group on a Cape buffalo hunt to show off his hunting prowess. Joyce diplomatically noted that, unfortunately, “His shooting wasn’t so great. However, the trip out and back was fantastic as were the gifts of precious stones.”

The highlight of a following trip to the C.A.E. resulted in Joyce bagging a trophy-sized Lord Darby eland Taurotragus derbianus.

Over the years, Joyce and Erwin had fallen deeply in love with Africa. In the early 1980s, they became some of the first homeowners in the new Sabie Park development on the western border of Kruger National Park,

Epilogue

In Erwin’s lifetime, he took over 37 individual trips to Africa, Asia, Europe, and South America, plus hunts to Alaska and northern Canada, too numerous to count. He was often a Weatherby Award candidate but was never awarded the trophy.

Joyce passed away in 2014. She was 91 years old.

Erwin passed away in 2019. He was 93 years old.

I have no question Erwin believed Theodore Roosevelt’s quote: “In a civilized and cultivated country, wild animals only continue to exist when preserved by sportsmen. The excellent people who protest against all hunting and consider sportsmen as enemies of wildlife are ignorant that, in reality, the genuine sportsman is, by all odds, the most important factor in keeping the larger and more valuable wild creatures from total extermination.”

Our 139-mile Elephant Hunt

Jan 13, 2024 | Hunting Stories

By Divan Labuschagne

It was April, and the vegetation in Bwabwata was thick. Grass towered six feet tall in some places with visibility mere meters. I love this time of year, up close and personal with some of my favorite species – elephant and buffalo. Bwabwata is a 280 000-hectare wilderness area sandwiched between Botswana to the south and Angola to the north, with elephant, sable, buffalo, leopard, lion, and many, many more. This is truly a hunter’s paradise. It’s normal later in the year to find huge groups of elephant numbering into the high hundreds, with daylight sighting of leopard, African wild dogs and lion.

Erin and Mike had joined me for an epic safari in Namibia’s famous Caprivi. Mike’s focus was a big elephant, and for the next two safaris we were hunting elephant the way it was meant to be – by tracking – while also hunting buffalo and hippo along the way. Erin, from Giving Back TV, was filming. Bwabwata is known for its big herds of buffalo and has produced some of Africa’s very best Dagga Boys. Bull herds with up to 20 in a group were very common, and tracking these bulls into the thickets was as exciting as it gets.

One late afternoon on our way back to camp my tracker Johnny caught a glimpse of a buffalo about 400 yards off the road. We got our rifles ready and started following. The bull was alone and slowly walking in grass taller than the Land Cruiser. I knew right there and then it was going to be close and personal, just the way I liked it. We tracked the bull for about 20 minutes when Johnny suddenly spotted it and pointed. Right in front of us was the bull feeding, totally unaware of our presence. The wind was good and quite strong, thus giving us the chance to get in even closer. I got Mike in close behind me. We slowly made our way forward, eyes fixed on the bull’s every move. The grass was so thick that Mike was struggling to make out the buffalo now standing broadside. We inched forward a couple more steps and put Mike on the sticks, and I whispered to him to make sure before squeezing the trigger.

There was a loud bark from the .416 Rem mag. The bull bucked and was gone before a second shot was possible. As a professional hunter I like to wait some time for the shot to take effect before following. We stood there for about five minutes then slowly walked to where the bull had been. Straight off the bat we found some lung blood. We followed the bull that was now heading into some very thick scrub, and heard it crashing through the bushes a couple of times. Time was ticking and we were losing light quickly.

On high alert I got Mike in right next to me with Erin as camera man and Johnny following the tracks of the departing bull. We tracked, stopped and listened. At one stage the bush was so thick it was almost dark in there. Then spotting the bull standing in some thick brush facing us, Mike managed to put in another shot, hitting the bull behind the shoulder but a little too far back. We waited a few minutes before following with caution. The bull was heading into some very thick bush, and with daylight fading quickly we continued after it. Johnny spotted it once more, facing us and Mike put in a frontal chest shot. The bull grunted and came straight for us. I fired the first barrel of my .470 NE hitting it in the chest, and Mike followed with a perfect brain shot, putting him down for good. Everyone was relieved at the outcome. Mike got a fantastic bull, and it was a great start to a wonderful safari ahead.

Later that same week we followed another bull close to the Botswana border. It was slowly walking southeast after a nice mud bath, and it wasn’t long before we saw it feeding towards us. This was ideal, and I got Mike on the sticks. The bull was now about 25 yards, coming our way. Then, from our right another bull appeared, a slightly younger one and still soft. We stood motionless trying to hide behind some tall grass. The younger bull suddenly winded us and took off, spooking the first bull that had been unaware of us, and he also took off, seemingly not sure what had just happened.

We followed and saw him once more, slowly walking away into the omuramba (ancient riverbeds found in the Kalahari Desert). Inside Bwabwata, every few kilometers there were these beautiful open omurambas running from northwest to southeast. In the rainy season they were filled with water, and buffalo just loved visiting the mud pools. We could now see the bull’s back as he moved from one mud pool to the next. Buffalo love to bath in mud to cool down and to get rid of parasites, as this time of the year it was hot, and ticks were everywhere. We leapfrogged to the right trying to intercept the bull. The wind was good, and we had plenty of good cover in the long grass, but it was impossible to take a longer shot because of the grass.

The bull then walked parallel to us, giving Mike the perfect opportunity to take a fatal shoulder shot. It ran about 50 yards before stopping. I could see it was struggling to stay on its feet and Mike put in another great shot. This was buffalo number two for Mike, and what a bull it was. We loaded it, and by the time we were done it was dark. We had about a two-hour drive back to camp in time for dinner and a good night’s sleep, ready to be on the road the next morning at 5 a.m. looking for elephant.

At this stage of the safari we had followed some elephant bulls but none that excited us. Big cow herds were plentiful. We knew it was just a matter of time before finding the right track. Slowly driving the cutline between Namibia and Botswana one morning we found the tracks of a big bull heading into our area from Botswana. We followed the bull that at this stage was just walking, not too fast but fast enough to keep in front of us. We followed the tracks into the omuramba to a pan where it drank. We could clearly see the tracks in the mud, and they looked even more impressive than they had earlier that morning.

After almost six hours of fast tracking, we were still not catching up to it. We cleared another omuramba and saw the bull had changed course, walking north. The sun was setting fast, and we had only a few hours of daylight left. We followed him for another six miles before time ran out. We had to abandon the tracks, as daylight was now almost gone. We had walked about 42 km from 8 a.m. that morning to sunset.

We followed more elephant that safari without any luck of a big bull. We saw plenty of elephant but just couldn’t find the right one. Mike had to leave without an elephant, but the plan was to return later in the year to try and find the right bull.

It was now October and hot as hell. Mike and Erin made their way back to the Caprivi in pursuit of a big tusker for Mike. Most of the pans had dried up and most of the animals were concentrated close to the Kwando River. Hundreds of elephant drank daily, and we were following them left and right. The sun was extremely hot, and walking in the soft Caprivi sand didn’t make it any easier. I had two teams of trackers. If we got on a track and followed it, the other trackers and driver would continue scouting. We came across a very nice track of a bull elephant close to Horseshoe Bend, heading west. The only problem was that every day, hundreds of elephant drank there and tracking was not easy. Once we had found the track again it wasn’t long before the bull joined up with yet another giant cow herd. This made things difficult as we had to maneuver our way between these cows to get to where the bull was. We had numerous close calls in the thickets only to lose the track again.

This bull had an unmistakable front left foot with a very distinctive deep crack, making it easy for the trackers to follow. An elephant’s track is like a human fingerprint, and if you can read a track, you will be able to follow such an animal for a long way. For the next few days we repeated the same process over and over, just to lose his track in the middle of thousands of elephant heading daily to the river and back. On day 10 of Mike’s second safari of the year, we found the tracks of the same bull again, heading west after being to the river to drink. It was about midday and actually very late to start tracking an elephant that had walked there the previous night. But knowing they don’t go too far, we set out to follow once again.

This time we got lucky. The bull was walking along a well-worn elephant path, and every now and then had stopped to feed. Later on he joined a group of cows in a burned area, feeding on some fresh leaves from the cluster-leafed terminalia trees. We could now hear elephant not too far away and we set off at pace. Soon enough we could see elephant here and there. The problem was to find the bull without spooking the rest of the herd. We swung around to the right to try cover the whole herd before they went into the thickets again. As we came close to the end of the burned area, we saw the body of a big bull towering over the few cows that were surrounding him. I looked through my binoculars trying to see his tusks, but the angle was not great. We moved back to the left, zig-zagging our way between some young bulls.

We could now see the elephant clearly. It was him. A bull of a lifetime, with thick and beautiful ivory. I got Mike in next to me and we started walking towards the bull slightly quartering towards us. Other elephants made it very difficult as we didn’t want to spook any of them, as then the whole herd would take off, leaving us to start over the next morning. Slowly Mike and I got into shooting position. Mike was using a .470 NE. We didn’t have too much time left and it was getting dark. We got in to about 30 yards and Mike took aim.

The 500-grain bullet took the bull on the forehead just to the right, missing the brain. As the elephant swung around, Mike put in the second barrel, getting the bull in the stomach. I took a shot with my .500 Jeffery, hitting the bull as he was now running away from us. I knew we had hit him and it was just a matter of time before we would catch up again. We tracked him for a few miles, but we were losing light fast. Then we found blood and realized that bull now only walking. A good sign.

Suddenly my tracker Johnny spotted another elephant walking our way, a younger bull. We detoured to the left trying not to spook it as we didn’t know where the big one was. Then Kenneth, another great bushman tracker, found the bull standing still. We moved into position and Mike dropped the bull right there. What a giant he was, truly a bull dreams are made of. The weight of the heavier tusk came in at 70lbs and the smaller one at 67lbs.

It was a remarkable hunt – by day 10 of the second safari we had walked 139 miles to find the right bull. This is what elephant hunting is all about. It is said that you hunt buffalo with guts; leopards with your brain; lion with your heart, and elephant with your feet. I couldn’t agree more. At the end of a wonderful safari Mike had taken two beautiful Dagga Boys, a hippo, and a big Caprivi tusker.

It was a worthwhile walk!