Into The Thorns
Into The Thorns
Chapter One
Ambush Alley
On one of the farms on the far western boundary of the Project, just ibefore we cross the Ingwezi riverbed onto AJ’s properties, the dirt road snakes its way between two high ridges of rugged koppies that run parallel to the road. At some point the ridges are only about 50 yards away from the road and further on they stand about 200 to 300 yards away. I don’t know where the name “Ambush Alley” originally came from. Possibly a farmer was ambushed here during the Rhodesian war, or maybe the farmers were convinced that if they were going to be ambushed, this is where it would happen. Either way, this piece of road is made for ambush, that’s for sure.
Graham told me that this section, a couple of miles of it, is actually part of the original Pioneer settlers’ road. After crossing the Ingwezi it winds its way north and east past our camp at the Mangwe Pass. Standing between those brooding ridges it’s easy to picture the old wooden wagons with their 16 trudging oxen, creaking and trundling north, whips cracking, voorloopers shouting, heading into new land filled with adventure, excitement and sorrow.
On both sides of this road, the narrow alley is choked with the dreaded ‘wag ‘n bietjie’ bush. ‘Wag ‘n bietjie’ is Afrikaans, the language of so many of the ‘trekkers’, or settlers, and it means ‘wait a bit’. It means wait a bit because that’s exactly what happens when you’re hooked by one of these treacherous bushes. You actually wait a lot more than ‘a bit’ when you have to unhook yourself. These bushes are the young of the Mkhaya, or knob-thorn (Acacia nigrescens) tree and are covered with hooked thorns similar to those found on a rose bush. One cannot force one’s way through these bushes, they will shred flesh like flensing knives. Most hunters to southern and central Africa have met the ‘wag ‘n bietjie’ bush, but ambush alley is the headquarters for the damn things.
In June of 2001, the season of the monsters, we found tracks of a very big leopard utilising this road. I was hunting with Fred and Julia Herbst from Pennsylvania, a couple who would return for several more safaris and become good friends with my wife and I. Fred’s focus was a big male leopard and Julia was going to try to collect a few plainsgame trophies, including kudu. Fred and Julia had travelled over with John White and his friend Cheryl.
John wanted to hunt leopard with dogs and was being guided by professional hunter Kevin Du Boil and Tristan Peacock, a houndsman from Bulawayo, and was focusing his attentions on a large cattle killer on our eastern boundary which we had named ‘Smith’s Block’. Smith’s Block was ambling around with feet that squared eleven. He was obviously a monster!
We had about fifteen baits out which had only produced two females and one young male, and we were on day eight. The tracks we found now in ambush alley looked very promising and Peter and I got down to examine them more carefully. They squared ten, and they had been made that night. We decided to move one of our already smelling beef hind legs into the valley immediately. We found a suitable flat-topped acacia tree about 60 yards east of the road, near a cattle fence and metal gate. We cleared a shooting lane to the southwest and hung the beef.
Two days later, on our bait-checking rounds, we saw the size ten leopard track in the dust again. Hearts in our mouths, we made our way slowly down ambush alley. Our bait had been hit! It was now quite decomposed, but about five or six pounds had been ripped out of it by this big male. We were excited and turned the Land Cruiser around and headed back toward the mountain camp. On the way we were lucky enough to collect an impala ram which I decided to hang in place of the rotten beef leg. I was worried that the leopard might return, take a perfunctory sniff at the deteriorating meat, and then move on. Now he would have brand new impala meat to get stuck into.
We reached camp in high spirits. Things were not tip-top for John White, however. They told us that they had indeed cut the tracks of Smith’s Block, and the hounds had raised Cain in pursuit of him. Unfortunately he headed back toward his home stomping grounds on the ranch called Smith’s Block (imagine that) where we had not secured the hunting rights. Tristan called his dogs off at the boundary and a weary peed-off group returned to camp. To rub salt in the wounds we found out later that the owner of Smith’s Block would have been ecstatic for us to nail this gnarly old cattle killer, C’est la vie. So, John and crew were unhappy, but Fred, Julia and I were very excited.
We returned to ambush alley at about 3pm. Julia was determined to be in the blind for the kill, so we set up three sleeping positions, set the shooting sticks and sandbags, secured the warning line, and then made last minute adjustments to the camouflage of the blind. I had given Fred the standard briefing that morning which covers what happens in the blind, what to expect, and most importantly the actual shot. We cannot afford to have a big male leopard leave the bait without a shot being taken. Big male cats are scarce. The time and work involved in getting one into shooting position has to be witnessed to be believed. So we needed to avoid ‘educating’ a cat at all costs. When the light goes on most leopards will look into the light then look away, then, after about five seconds or so they will slowly move off. This gives the shooter plenty of time to assess the target, decide on a shot and squeeze off. Remember that the rifle is already aiming at the spot the leopard should be feeding from. Very little adjustment should be necessary, and the rifle is bedded down into small sandbags at the rear and fore end of the rifle. Every hunter, including myself, has a hammering heart and shaking hands when the light goes on. Some people obviously suffer from this more than others, but our method of securing the rifle cuts out a lot of room for error.
The leopard itself is not massively boned and muscled like a lion. Any medium calibre rifle firing proper ammunition can reach the leopard’s vitals from any angle. We cannot afford to sit there with the spotlight on waiting for the perfect shot. The hunter must take the one that is on offer. If a cat is on his haunches facing away, a spine shot into the lungs is perfect. If he is walking away a rectum shot will do the job. If he is angling away a raking shot into the area behind the ribs angling into the front offside shoulder will kill him.
Front on, and side shots need no elaboration. But it will amaze the hunter who has not yet tried leopard hunting, to hear the percentage of our leopards, even with the sand bagging and gun rests, that are missed or wounded at under a hundred yards. It is quite unbelievable. In an average year with about 15 leopard hunts, two will be failures through bad luck. Of the remaining 13, five or six will be missed or wounded. Professional hunters bitch when we pay our yearly life insurance policies. But if you are a leopard specialist, and you sit down and think about it, these insurance brokers have a point. We are a very bad risk!
Another aspect which is covered in the briefing before we actually sit, is that the hunter must not fire unless the PH says the word. Occasionally the culprit who has bent the warning stick is one of the small cats, or even a honey badger. All this is swimming around the poor excited hunter’s head as we settle in. Find the cat, select best shot – don’t procrastinate, don’t jerk trigger, wait for PH to tell me to “shoot”, be quiet, don’t pee, don’t snore, don’t cough. Confusing instructions, but we only ever have four or five super cat males on our area at any one time. In one season we take only two, sometimes three of these giants; and we cannot afford to let one slip away ‘educated’.
Fred was nervous after all these admonishments; and I think that must have had some influence on the bizarre incidents which followed. The three of us settled in. We removed our shoes, unwrapped our sandwiches, uncapped the water and Fred checked his rifle one last time. We were ready. One last sniff and cough, and the trackers drove off in the Cruiser.
This, for me, is one of my favourite times. It’s been a frantic day checking baits, securing new bait, getting back to camp to fetch all the equipment, and then working flat-out to make sure the hide is perfect by sundown. We are all quite worn-out and it feels good to lie down on a comfortable mattress out in the open with the evening coming on. Of course the feeling of anticipation, knowing that a giant leopard should be coming in, adds to the feeling of wellbeing, of a job well done.
Fred lay on the left side of the hide as we looked toward the bait, Julia in the middle, and me on the right. Fred and Julia are both bow hunters back in the USA and their self-discipline showed. They were quiet. The doves, francolins and a group of nearby green wood pigeons provided the evening serenade. We could hear a group of baboons barking in the distance. The gentle fitful breeze was still steady from our right as we looked toward the bait. I lay there hoping that the high ridges of ambush alley were not going to play tricks with the wind as they cooled down.
About an hour after dark Julia nudged me in the ribs. I opened my eyes and focused on the warning stick above our heads. The stars provided us with enough dim light to enable us to see the stick and each other, but that was all. Sure enough, the stick bent. Gently forward, relax, gently forward. He must be licking the bait. I gestured for Julia to stay still and for Fred to sit up very very slowly. Once he was up behind the rifle I silently stood up with the light and turned it on. An eye flashed, went out, then two green-white eyes flashed. Close together. A small cat, probably a genet. I moved a short step to the right to get a better look. Boom! Fred’s rifle clapped, and I nearly soiled myself. It was the last thing I was expecting! I saw the unscathed genet now; he took one more look toward us then skittered down the tree.
“Jesus Christ Fred. That was a damned genet cat!”
“Ah hell, I just, ah hell….” He answered. I could see that he was devastated. He knew he had screwed up. “I saw the eyes flash, I saw spots, I thought maybe it was part of the leopard, I was remembering what you said – I didn’t want him to get away. Ah shit, I’m sorry, I screwed up”.
I didn’t want to belabour the obviously ruined super-cat hunt. I felt more sick with remorse than anger at Fred. God damn it. All that work and luck of getting a giant male on bait ruined. Shit! I felt deflated and resigned. Fred sat with his head in his hands. I knew he felt worse. Julia lay still with the blanket up to her nose. I could make out her wide eyes in the starlight. She said nothing.
“We’ll just sit tight until the car comes. But remember if there’s a next time, wait till I ask you to shoot, okay?”
I told Fred to reload his rifle and we sat quietly to see if the truck would arrive after hearing the shot. When half an hour had passed, I knew that they had not heard us. It was a clear night with no hint of rain. We were warm and I decided to spend the night. It was only 7pm. I reckoned that the cat had to be nearby and must have heard the shot. I was convinced that the only thing we were going to enjoy was a good night’s sleep out in the fresh air, and that any chance we had at a leopard had disappeared with the roar of Fred’s rifle.
“Settle in for the night Fred. Who knows, maybe he wasn’t near. Stranger
things have happened”.
I lay down again, but Fred sat for a long-time head in hands. He told me the next day he hated himself that night. He must have been feeling like hell. The night wore on. I was dozing when once again Julia nudged me. The stick was active again. It was still not an aggressive wild movement. It bent, relaxed, bent again slowly. I was puzzled. Would the same genet be back after being shot at? Had the leopard arrived? I gestured for Fred to get into position. When he indicated that he was ready I put the light on. Our friend the genet was back. We could see him clearly this time. I switched off the light. Four more times Julia nudged me. Didn’t this woman doze? Each time I checked the stick’s movement, but it was the same gentle action. We left the light off and let him feed.
At about ten o’clock the genet must have left. The stick was still. I could hear both Fred and Julia sleeping quietly. Thank God they were not snorers. The next thing I knew was that something was ripping the bait! Not only was the warning stick gyrating wildly, but I could hear crunching and tearing from the bait as well as nails ripping at the rough bark of the acacia tree! This had to be him!
Both Julia and Fred were sitting up.
“Quickly Fred, it’s him, I’m sure”. Fred dropped the huddled blankets away and moved into the bedded rifle. He nodded and I put on the light. The white light blazed onto one of the sights I still find so thrilling. A huge male leopard, green-white eyes flashing, white stomach, and gold and black back.
Tail slashing, left, right…. right paw hooked into the impala, jaws bloody.
“Take him Fred. Right shoulder, shoot”. Boom!
The leopard was slapped sideways by the bullet. He hit the ground, began roaring, stopped, then we heard him smashing through the thick vegetation. “He’s hit Fred, I’m sure of it, how did you feel? He’s a goddamn beauty! He’s a giant. Jeez Fred what did your sight picture look like?” I think I was more excited than Fred.
I was amazed that he had even come in. Fred said that he had seen the cat perfectly. He had been sideways, right side toward us, slanted upward on the acacia branch at about a 45-degree angle, and Fred had gone for the shoulder. I looked at my watch. 3.25am. I fired another shot over the hills to the east where I knew the trackers had driven to bed down. We talked excitedly and replayed the hunt over and over again until the Land Cruiser arrived. I yelled to George that they should bed down on the road until dawn. The three of us snuggled back down into the blankets for the coldest part of the night.
We were up with the first grey light of dawn. I cocked my .460 and George and I went forward to the bait tree. Sure enough there was the blood. We could see where the big cat had thrashed around and then made off through the thick vegetation to the east. Into the thorns. Peter, my tracker, was assisting Kevin with the dog hunt, so I decided to let George do his best on tracks while I stood over him as cover. We followed light blood-sign for about a hundred yards before I realised that we had a proper follow-up on our hands. This blood was definitely not heart or lung blood. I had felt so sure that this big leopard would have poured gouts of lung all over the brush and that we would find him expired not far from the bait. But I was very wrong. This hunt was just beginning.
I stopped George and we went back to where we had left Fred and Julia, and George went back to the truck to fetch my pistol and belt. After all that had happened, Fred was really downcast that the cat had not been found dead near the bait tree. He said that he had been steady, and he had been dead on with his sight picture. I tried to cheer him up, saying that the cat was probably lying not too far away, but I was worried. We both were. I cocked the Glock, jammed it in my belt and George and I went carefully back to where we had left the blood trail. Where we were at this moment was quite thorny, but mostly green leafy low bushes. The real stuff, the acres of wag ‘n bietjie, lay further to our left, or north, a couple of hundred yards away. I looked over that way and a feeling of dread flooded in with the butterflies already in my stomach.
The blood had already thinned. It was not thick, dark arterial blood. It was not orangey-red, frothy, bright lung blood. It was not watery, stomach-content, gut blood. I could find no bone shards. This blood seemed like muscle blood. At that range, the way the leopard had shown himself, I couldn’t imagine that Fred had hit the muscles of the back legs. If he had gone into the front leg surely there should be bone? If he had nicked the front leg there would be less blood than this. We pressed on, yard by slow yard. The cover was becoming thicker.
Whenever possible we try to call in help when following up wounded leopards in our areas. One more experienced PH is ideal. You can cover each other and the tracker perfectly without “over cluttering” the operation. My nearest assistance would be Graham, some 20 miles back up the main road, but I wasn’t sure he was home at that moment.
I decided to push on. George and I moved noisily through some burned out crackly undergrowth, trying in vain to move without sound. Fred called something to me from back near the bait. I didn’t answer for fear the big leopard was within charging range. George forced his way through an archway of head-high hook-thorn bushes, snagging his coveralls at every step – I went slowly around the side, .460 at the shoulder. This was becoming nervewracking and I needed to rest. A small cluster of granite rocks rose up out of the thorns about 30 yards ahead. I signalled to George to leave the spoor and fall in behind me. I felt certain that the cat was in the rocks waiting for us. He had to have heard us. I was ready for the charge and walked left foot leading at every step, my rifle up in the firing position ready to go. Sure enough, about four good paces up between the rocks I spotted a flattened area in the black koppie soil. I gestured with my eyes for George to crouch down and check it out while I covered him. He bent down, looked closer at the ground, lay the back of his hand against the flattened patch and immediately backed off behind me, whispering “U kona – dusi.” (He’s here – close!) I stood still for a full minute. Nothing. I crouched, looked down. There was fresh blood in the leaves. I felt the ground. It was warm. We had spooked this animal in the last few minutes. He was very much alive. I edged on to the top of the small outcrop, adrenalin singing through my veins. He wasn’t there. The tracks, no blood now, led down, and turned left. Straight into the intertwined acres of wag ‘n bietjie and thick yellow grass. This needed discretion. It was pure madness to go into this stuff with one gun. We pulled back and returned to update Fred and Julia back at the bait. Fred looked sick. After all that had transpired, this was too much. The poor guy was absolutely gutted.
I figured out it would be a smarter choice to try to find Tristan and his dogs who were hunting with Kevin and John White on AJ’s properties nearby, rather than drive 20 miles on the off chance that Graham was home. This turned out to be a lucky choice. We found Tristan within an hour, parked at one of AJ’s workers’ compounds. He had John and Cheryl and the dogs with him. Kevin was somewhere else looking for fresh tracks. We set off immediately for ambush alley. Peter too was there, and I was glad to have him in the team once again. When we arrived at the bait tree I battled to brief Tristan on the situation as the hounds could obviously smell the wounded leopard and were barking and howling in excitement.
We barely had time for hurried instructions to Fred, John and the staff, and the dogs were off. They clambered unerringly straight down the path George and I had taken, whining and barking all the while. Tristan, his main handler, Moyo and myself were in close pursuit, with Fred, John, Julia and Cheryl following with the remainder of our staff. To me, someone unfamiliar with dog hunting, it all looked too disorganised and slap-dash. But then Tristan had apparently taken many leopard this way. I decided to withhold council and see what developed. Either way it had to be better than going into the “point blank” vegetation alone.
The hounds hit the lying-down position by the outcrop and went ballistic. Fresh leopard scent was all over the place. They scampered around the rocks briefly then went howling into the wag ‘n bietjie. The hounds had hardly entered this sickening maze when the guttural burping roar of the enraged leopard could be heard in deep base against the high-pitched yelping, then ‘ow-ow-ow’ from one of the dogs. We stopped at the edge of the thorns. The battle raged on unseen for a few seconds then off the dogs went again – toward the road in the centre of ambush alley.
We were unable to keep up with the animals, the thorn was just too thick, and the dogs were on their own. We were all bleeding from cuts on our legs and arms as we fought our way back toward the road. As we reached the road, once again the leopard was brought to bay. The guttural roars, and the excited yelping and howling all rose in intensity and in volume. It sounded as though the battle was being fought in an area of thorns thicker than the rest – if that was possible.
Tristan had a dozen dogs. Not all were seasoned hounds, but I could not understand why they were unable to force the leopard into a tree or up some rocks where we could get a shot. I would find out in due course.
We regrouped on the road. Dog handlers, trackers, Tristan, myself, Fred and Julia, and John and Cheryl. The Americans had been kept safely to the rear out of harm’s way, but we were in a quandary. I wanted Fred to be able to finish off his own leopard, but Tristan and I both did not want to endanger the dogs or any person in trying to achieve that end.
The fight had now moved further northward up the valley and closer to the western ridge of hills. Tristan and I decided to climb the ridge and see if we could take a better look at the overall picture. We were hoping that at least one of us could get on some high ground or up a tall tree within shooting range of the leopard. Meanwhile, the leopard would fight the dogs off then bound away into the thickest cover he could find and then stop and make a stand. No one had seen the leopard since the fight began.
While we were standing on the road two dogs emerged from the bush, Buck and Gabe. Their tails were down, heads hanging. Buck had some bloodbearing scratches on his hindquarters, but we could find no teeth marks in either of them. These two had taken a hammering and had thrown in the towel. Gabe may have taken a blow to his left shoulder and probably had internal bruising as he was favouring his left front leg.
The commotion now from the dogs was sporadic. We decided to leave everyone on the road except for Tristan, myself, Fred, John and George. We walked north up the ambush alley road until we came parallel to the action. Dube, Tristan’s handler, was still with the dogs. After yelling and confirming with him that the leopard was still grumbling away in some very thick stuff, we cut into the thorns until we reached a fence line. We had now passed the subdued pack. The fence line showed about a yard of open ground on each side and we were now standing on a raised area about six feet higher than the surrounding bush. We could not see into it at all. We decided to get Fred ready for a shot down the fence line and then work the dogs up in the hope of pushing the leopard west, toward the wire.
Dube started whistling and yelling to the dogs and Tristan joined in, calling them all by name. They commenced barking louder, Whip and Biggun howling the bayed call. Suddenly, building up like a diesel motor, the grumbling growl of the leopard! A sudden burp and one of the dogs went off screaming. The plan was working! We could hear the cat bounding through the thickets right toward our fence. “Get ready Fred. Get ready, here he comes!”
As I said that, the monster poked his head and neck out of the bush into the fence line. I should have whacked him right then. It was a serious error on my part, but I so wanted Fred to salvage something out of this, I wanted him to finish the cat off. But the huge head swivelled immediately up at us on the rise. He glared at us for only a second or two, slipped back into the bushes and launched into the hounds once more. This time the screaming and barking was fierce.
“He’s hammering the dogs; we’ve got to go in!” This came from Tristan.
He was now seriously concerned for his hounds, and he had his .44 revolver out. This was not good. The cat would move out of the impenetrable thickets and he would not tree, he wanted to fight it out. I had zero experience with dog hunting, but Tristan said it was extremely unusual. Most leopards apparently would go for a cave where they could face their attacker, or they would go up a large tree to escape the hounds. The dogs were showing serious signs of battle-strain and we could hear two or three of them still baying around the grunting cat. As we found out later another three were ‘hors de combat’ and had gone back to the truck. Enough was enough apparently.
We hastily made a new plan – Tristan and I would go down right to the remaining dogs and try to get a shot at the leopard. The niceties of waiting for Fred to finish his cat were over. He was resigned to this and urged us to get the job finished. We moved as quickly as we could, getting snagged and ripped at every step. The leopard was in a thicket about seven yards by four. We could see the white and red flash of a dog every now and then and we could see the tops of some six-foot-high grass and saplings moving, but nothing else.
It seemed risky to me, but Tristan decided to put some .44 bullets into the bottom of the moving grass. They were his dogs and I supposed he knew what he was doing. The blast of the revolver temporarily silenced the dogs; another shot, blam! Now the long grass moved to our left. We had moved him. Once again he held. I decided to climb a mopane tree and get Tristan to pass my rifle up. This was achieved and I stared carefully into the thorns. The damn things were as impossible to see into from up there, as they were at ground level. I thought, from the movement of grass and bushes, that I had a pretty good idea where the brute was. Once I accounted for all the dogs (or had a good guess anyway), I braced myself up in the tree and fired a round into the spot where I thought the leopard was. It is not an easy matter to fire a .460 Weatherby magnum while you’re trying to balance in a mopane tree. I do not recommend it. At the ‘boom’ of the .460 the dogs went silent. The leopard continued to grumble and growl as he did before. He sounded exactly like a lion down there. I did not believe I had hit him.
I climbed down and reloaded. Three rounds sit in this rifle, now there were two. There is a standard unwritten rule in big game hunting. When you leave the truck make sure you have enough ammunition. In all my years of professional hunting I have never found myself far out in the bush without ammunition; but I can see how it could happen. Rounds being fired in desperation when one is lost, mislaid ammo belt, too many bad shots taken at a lightly wounded elephant. Murphy is watching. When I follow wounded leopard I like to feel unburdened and able to move easily, unhindered in any way. I have become used to wearing my leather belt with my 9mm pushed into the front. I take my ammunition holders and my knife off the belt; these go into the hands of my tracker. The other pertinent point is that when facing a charge, especially from leopard, buffalo, and lion, I make sure that I hold my fire until the absolute, absolute last second. The closer the adversary is, the less chance I have of missing him. I resigned myself a long time ago to the fact that there is no second shot. There is one shot only!
“Point blank” for a leopard, for me, means just that. At the end of the barrel if possible. With buffalo and lion I will fire at about five paces, which enables me to get out of the way of the still moving, but dead animal. An elephant in fairly open woodland can be taken more easily on the charge. They are a much bigger target and even if the brain is not hit with perfection, the animal will be stunned from the .460, giving me time for another shot. An elephant will also often turn from a failed brain shot. Buffalo, however, will not turn. Elephant in thick jesse or heavy cover are a different matter. The shooter is hampered by tearing and crackling bush and tree limbs and will have to fire upward at 40 degrees, or steeper, at the enraged animal’s head. This again is the time to wait until there is no going back. Point blank. This topic is covered with more care in the chapter “Follow Up”, so it will suffice to say here that I normally have three soft nose rounds in my .460 when following wounded leopards, but now I was down to two. Still in good shape.
Tristan and I decided to try to take the fight more to the leopard. We were running out of dogs. But every time we started yelling at the dogs and to each other to provoke a response from the cat I had to be up and ready for the charge. It was damned tiring as the adrenalin surges left me weak for a while afterwards. Once again we pushed forward, the dogs went in, the cat started burping his roars out, louder each time! Tristan fired at the whipping brush, I did the same. Had we nailed him? No! Off they went once more, howling like banshees back across the road into the wag ‘n bietjie on the other side.
This was exasperating. It was now very hot and approaching 11am. We sent for the girls and some water and the cool-box, and sat down in some shade on the road. This hunt was looking like it might slip away from us. Peter, who is the best tracker I have ever seen, is not the bravest soldier in the army, however, and had long ago taken himself out of the front line and appointed himself “dog looker-after”. He informed us that all the dogs, save two, had had enough of the morning’s festivities and retired to the vehicle. The only two left were Jessica and Biafra. Jessica was an outstanding hound and in my opinion the hero of ambush alley this day. She was not a big dog, and she was quite young. She was tenacious and lived for the hunt. She alone was still yapping in the bush as we all sat down to reassess the situation and cool down with some cokes and cold water. We called her over and she too settled down in the shade.
Tristan felt that with every hour that slipped away the chances of finishing this cat were disappearing. Too few dogs still had the vinegar to face this leopard, and you couldn’t force a leopard anywhere with only two dogs.
“This leopard seems reluctant to leave this maze Tristan, can’t we force him, provoke him into charging us?” I asked. I couldn’t see any other way out and I was tired of ripping my way through this stuff.
Tristan considered this a while and decided. “Yup, I think it’s the only way, Wayne. The dogs are done. If we can get them to work a little longer, and rile up the cat enough, he’ll come.”
It was a daunting prospect, but one which we’d been prepared for right from the start. For some reason Tristan had a protective Kevlar vest in his truck and George put it on. He was made of the right stuff and was ready, albeit unarmed, for battle. We stood up. I checked my rifle and pistol, and decided to force this thing to conclusion. I only had one round left. The one in the barrel. I toyed with the idea of sending George back to my truck for a few more. I didn’t see the point. I didn’t want to delay any longer and there was only going to be one shot now anyway. Tristan had exchanged his .44 for a .375 rifle. Jessica stood too, and Tristan began to get her excited and back into the hunting mode. To my surprise, and puzzlement, she faced the east side of the road and began to yelp at full volume. Tristan admonished her then stopped. He knew his dogs. Jessica and Biafra now had their hackles up and were barking furiously.
“Watch it Wayne, he’s right here in this thicket, he has to be, look at the dogs,” said Tristan. My God. Right where we were having a damned picnic! We yelled for everyone to back off. Tristan and I came closer together and began to shout obscenities at the cat, stamping our feet and kicking the bushes, advancing a yard at every step, rifle in the shoulder and hearts hammering. Guttural growling in short ascending bursts. Louder each time. Suddenly, for the first time since the fence line, I saw him, but so briefly and so little of him I could not get a shot off. He bounded back further into the bush, Biafra and Jessica hard on his tail. Tristan and I ran forward as best we could, George in tow. The leopard stopped again in some thicker stuff about 20 yards away. The two dogs continued yapping and circling the thicket and the loud growling was getting louder! Tristan and I shouted louder! We were psyched now into ending it.
“Come you bastard, come on!”
And with raging lion-like belches he came. The thing I noticed and remember the most was his hate-blazing eyes and the hugeness of his round head, ears flattened down in fury.
“Wait Tristan, wait, wait!” I shouted. I wanted him close. At about six feet I blasted him in the chest and he went down. I dropped my rifle and drew my pistol at the same time that Tristan let go with the .375. With a burbling sigh the monster from Ambush alley was finished.
It had been a long stressful night and morning, and I was suddenly tired. The staff rejoined us and George commenced regaling them with descriptions of the rogue’s last movements. They lifted the cat to carry him to the road and it was now that we saw what an extraordinarily large animal he was. Four of our staff were battling to get him to the road, his thick tail snaking along behind.
We lay him down in ambush alley and examined him. He was a beautiful specimen possibly just facing the end of his prime. His teeth were not yet broomed and yellow, but he’d lost all the serrations behind his upper canines. He was thick and fat with exquisite mountain-type colouring on his back and flanks. His big head was cut with fight marks that had just begun to heal, and it looked like he had received a bite which had damaged his right eye and his nose. What a battle it must have been. I wish I could have examined his opponent.
We turned the cat over to examine Fred’s shot and I was amazed to see his bullet-hole in exactly the right place! I could not understand it. If I were to take that shot I would have shot the animal in exactly that spot! It was puzzling. How had the bullet missed the heart/lung area? We rolled him over again. The left shoulder was broken. This explained why he could not tree and opted to fight it out on the ground. But how could a bullet enter behind the right shoulder and break the left shoulder, but avoid the vitals? It was strange bullet behaviour indeed. We decided to check the bullet’s path when the animal was skinned out.
We took some photos at the scene, but decided to do most of the photography at camp. This scarred old battler also had my .460 hole in the chest and another where it came out behind the right leg; as well as a hole high up above the left shoulder blade from Tristan’s .375.
Tristan took out his dogs’ medical pack and injected several of the dogs with antibiotics after cleaning all the wounds that he found. He then put in stitches on several large open cuts.
Fred was thankful that the giant leopard had not been lost, but he was glum. I tried to explain that he had made a good shot and pure bad luck had interfered via the bizarre bullet track.
This was an extremely heavy leopard and I am still angry with myself for not trying harder to find a good scale before gutting the cat that day. Graham and his client killed and weighed the leopard that became the biggest ever killed in the country some years later, and looking carefully at the photographs, I reckon this leopard was easily that size. Graham’s cat weighed 196 pounds. When we finally did get this beast comprehensively photographed and skinned, Graham and I went to the skinning shed to try to work out the puzzle of Fred’s shot. Strange indeed. The bullet went in at the right armpit and seemed to skim slightly downwards, along the ribs, but not entering the chest cavity, and staying under the skin. It then crossed the meat of the brisket, exited under the left armpit and went in a strange upward channel into the left shoulder, breaking the shoulder bone. The cat must have had his left side at a slightly different, higher angle than it looked in the bait tree. Fred probably should have aimed a little higher, but at the time I can see why he squeezed off where he did.
The dried skull of this fighting machine scored well over 17 inches and we ushered another Matobo giant into the record book.
Fred and Julia went on to enjoy the rest of their safari, with Julia collecting a beautifully shaped 55-inch kudu bull in the Shangani plains.
The Herbsts returned to our leopard areas five years later and Julia, now the hunter, put another big male leopard into the salt.
John failed to connect on his dog hunt, so I offered him a free return safari which he accepted. The following season he took a beautiful 160 pounder on the first night out
I remember one particularly unpleasant incident when I was about sixteen years old. We had a small ten foot boat powered by a 20hp motor which had cut out. My friend was standing on a rock, holding the boat while I tried to repair the engine. We could hear very little over the thunderous roar of the Victoria Falls, and when I looked up I saw that a Zambian police boat was making its way toward us. We were on the Zambian side of the river and it was obvious that they wanted to arrest us. This was not good. Not only would we be dragged across to Zambia and cause an international incident, but we had a bushbuck and some large bream in the boat, which we had shot with a .22 rifle that morning.
Into the Thorns is now available at Good Books in the Woods
