Hunting Stories Archives - Page 13 of 25

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!

Respect the River

Jan 3, 2024 | Hunting Stories

By Tayvi Rae Stilson

I kept thinking, “What will my family do if I die in Africa?”

This is the story of how I died. Well, not literally, but a little inside.

From the time I was a little girl living in a small town in the United States, I wanted to visit Africa. The day after my high school graduation, my dream came true. I got to start my amazing hunting journey in Africa at Comre’ Safaris.

Comre’ was stunning and our perfect guide Richard made the journey so much fun. The first two days it rained, and I couldn’t get anything on my list, but my grandpa did, taking an amazing heavy black wildebeest. It took some chasing to get it to the right spot, but just as the sun was setting, he was able to take it. We woke up the next day to rain again, but that was okay because we were still able to go out and hunt, and I was able to shoot my first animal with one shot. I was lucky enough to get a very old, but beautiful white blesbok.

After this, things got crazy, and I thought I was going to die in Africa. It rained for almost three days straight, and the water in the rivers was pretty high and rough. In our vehicle we started to cross a river that had been flooded, where boulders had been washed down. We couldn’t see them and got stuck on a big one. At first, it wasn’t too bad, but then the water started to fill up in our vehicle. That’s when my grandma and I decided it was time to leave! We climbed out of the window, waded the rest of the way across the river to the bank, and waited until a tractor came to pull the vehicle out. It was some experience, to say the least!

The next two days my grandpa and I were able to shoot some beautiful animals. He took a fantastic yellow blesbok and a great blue wildebeest bull, while I was able to kill an impala with a deep back sweep, and an awesome nyala cow with very beautiful markings.

The next day started with my grandpa trying to shoot a zebra from over 700 yards away, but he didn’t get it. Then it was my turn. I took a shot at a kudu

bull that was 640 yards away, only being able to see the head and top of its neck. I hit it but didn’t drop it. We spent the whole rest of the day trying to track it down, but unfortunately, we couldn’t find it. We ended up going to Hunters Hill the next day where my grandpa was able to complete his impala slam with a black impala, a saddleback, and an absolute giant of a white flank impala. The year before he had taken an impressive common impala. That same day I took an amazing shot at a gorgeous Kalahari springbok and got it. My grandpa was able to shoot a very beautiful and heavy trophy red hartebeest. Next, we saw an amazing golden wildebeest cow in a very big herd. It was a harder shot considering it kept moving behind trees or would go in between the others, but thankfully I was able to take a shot, and we got her! Let me just say the golden wildebeest is a very beautiful animal, and we were very lucky to have seen it!

The final day was hard. I started feeling all the emotion of not wanting to leave the beautiful stay at Comre’. On the last hunt I was able to achieve my goal of a beautiful and majestic trophy sable. Sable is known as the prince of the bushveld.

The Sunday we were leaving was sad, to say the least. It was hard to leave the camp and come back home, but the time I was able to spend there had moments I will cherish forever, some of the best memories I’ll ever have. Comre’ is so beautiful and has the prettiest scenic places. I got to see so many cool new animals including zebras, giraffes, and monkeys. My trip to Africa was amazing and so much fun!

So, thankfully, I didn’t die in Africa, but I certainly learned some fear of rivers!

Gin-Trapped Buffalo Leads to the Fall of a Zimbabwean Icon

Jan 3, 2024 | Archive, Hunting Stories, News

The letter below was copied to me by an Alaskan hunter.

What made the letter particularly meaningful is that just this week something terrible happened. When you read the letter below, you will see a reference to gin traps and how terrible they are. And the link you may ask? It was just this week that a game-farming family inadvertently felt the tragic impact of such a poacher’s gin trap.

A tremendous man, from all reports, someone devoted to uplifting communities and wildlife, was killed by a buffalo. The buffalo had fallen victim to one of the impoverished rural poachers’ gin traps. Wounded, suffering, and needing to be put out of its misery, the belligerent beast took out its anger and pain on the very person on a mission to help end its suffering. Digby Bristow was the target of the buffalo’s vengeance as it pummeled him – his wife Vanessa’s words in her heartfelt recount of what happened that fateful day just before Christmas.

While the taking of a life, the killing of an animal is hard to understand, and some even display delight in the act, and is what jars with the public in general, it is only a component of the hunt itself. The letter below is a long read, so just keep scrolling if you are busy.

Letter to UK Parliament regarding the Ban the Import of African Animals

Dear MP Christopher Chope,

After reading the article by Dr. John Ledger in the latest issue of “African Hunting Gazette” I was greatly disturbed to see a Bill by the UK Parliament to Ban the Import of African Animals.

It is with great respect to you after reading bios about you from different sources that you are a champion against such a Bill and that you have in the past been a champion against the many “New Age Ideas” that attempt to alter and destroy our natural world.

There have been times as a hunter that I have looked upon an animal that I have killed and wonder how I could take the life of such a beautiful creature. But I believe mankind should be overseers of our natural heritage, including the environment of our planet, the husbandry of our ecosystem, and the common-sense use of fossil fuels, utilized for man’s benefit. Until there is a better energy source, fossil fuel should still be our best choice for it is still in great supply!

The people of Africa are beneficiaries of those that come to hunt on their soil. The dollars that come to them by way of travel, licenses, permits, taxes, game meat, and trophy fees each help to educate local communities about the natural fauna and flora, and the importance of habitat in which they live within.

Normally these people in rural villages are very poor that have small gardens that will supply them with the food that will carry them through each day and each season. An elephant or herds of antelope that come to feed on their gardens, become an enemy that must be dealt with. Some may be shot with crude weapons, caught in gin traps, or taken with snares. Without education, their value as a renewable game species is unknown to them.

When African Countries open blocks to hunters, the benefits to the rural people are tremendous. The funds that are immediately procured become sources of income for game departments that fund species surveys, game counts, boreholes for healthy drinking water in the villages where many have died from disease-ridden water supplies. Those in these villages become part of poaching patrols. Money is used to build schools that will educate their children about the animals that live around them.

A new world that suddenly opens to them, ideas become the creation of dreams to becoming doctors, seeing a world that was never envisioned.

Those people that had their gardens raided, will begin to see meat being delivered to their villages, and with this new resource of protein that they can depend on, begin to take an interest in the way animals will be harvested that will not only supply food for their families, but will be a dependable and renewable resource for them in the future.

If this Bill to Ban the Import of African Animals is passed, it will destroy the wildlife species like never before. Who will fund the needy when wildlife no longer has a spoken voice, from those that benefited the most?

Many of the Wildlife Parks in Africa have been saved from complete habitat destruction by those that come from abroad – to hunt. The hunting blocks, of course, are outside of these parks, but as habitat decreases many species leave to forage where habitat is plentiful. Because Animal Rights organizations will not allow the animals in these parks to be culled, the destruction of these guarded habitats becomes useless to provide life to the species living within them.

Without wise management of our natural world that is provided for now by hunters’ dollars and certainly not by those that cry foul yet offer nothing to the poor African people that ought to benefit, the environment and its wildlife will suffer.

There are those that come to my home and see animals I have hunted in Africa and elsewhere. There are some that shake their heads, for they do not understand. But when I can explain about the coloration of animal skins, the unique shape of eyes, lips, and horns, some begin to understand from a fresh perspective.

I tell them about a person with a strange name they have never heard before, our tracker who we followed. I tell them about the bent stick he used to point to a hoof-print barely visible in dry and dusty ground among dozens of others, and as I recall my memories I am transported back to that place where warm winds blow and the sweet soft calls from doves are carried in those warm currents of air. A place where the joy I felt was indescribable, where calming peace captivated me in a place like no other.

I will recall how wonderfully surprised I was when this man pointed to the direction the animal had suddenly turned, for there was nothing to show in the sand or grass that I could see. But he smiled and nodded.

These wonderful trackers became masters of these skills when they were but young boys when they took charge of the village cattle into fields, through jungle and down into river bottoms among ferocious predators, when the rainy season came, with flashes of lightening from thunderstorms of black clouds and racing wind and pounding rain.

I sadly recall that some of these great men I hunted with died at a young age because of HIV/AIDs and other diseases that could not be warded off because their communities were remote and poor. There were no doctors, so none came.

Like the animals that have such coloration and form, the indigenous African people are different in color and cultures from our own but are beautiful and unique. They have seen what hunters’ dollars have brought into their lives, and they have learned the importance these game animals now have, and what has been added to their lives and their families that now have schools and health clinics. They have honor. They have very little, but they love their families, as we do ours.

They know if they let the game animals propagate, that the oldest males will be harvested, the resource will continue, and the meat and trophy fees will make their villages prosper.

We proclaim that our world today is superior to that of the past, but still the horn of the rhino and the tusk of the elephants have no regulated legal trade. Yet poaching has continued, with black markets stealing the lives of these animals, a practice that will continue again and again until those animals are just pictures in a book.

There will be no one to count the missing dead, for the game departments will close without funding to maintain the resource.

Some nations stopped hunting and brought in people with cameras. But photo safaris travel the same track day after day, giving wild animals no peace to live as people seek their pictures relentlessly, day after day.

The habitat loss becomes tremendous with roads and bridges. Non-hunters pay no trophy fees that would fund game departments or poaching patrols. Photo Safaris supply no protein to the villagers who have lost their gardens to animals that no longer are managed or cared for. They receive no funding. They receive no meat.

There are those that claim that Kenya is the model African country because it no longer allows organized hunting. But when you talk to those rural people that lived there before 1977, they will tell you a different story.

This planet is ours, we can preserve it or let it fall into destruction. True hunters, those that seek our world’s wild places, hunt not just to kill or take away, but come to preserve those things that should be most precious to each of us.

How wonderful if we could each hand over to those that come after we have gone, this most incredible natural world gifted to us.

Hunters’ dollars fund wildlife!

My Best Regards,

Norman Thomas

Alaska

There is a Time and Place for Everything

Jan 3, 2024 | Hunting Stories

This Texas heart shot founds its way into the vitals and we had our trophy.

By Ricardo Leone

While a respectable number of hunters may wish to debate the ethics of taking a Texas heart shot as your initial shot on big game – few will dispute the effectiveness of this infamous shot as a follow-up. For those who do not know what I am referring to, a Texas heart shot is simply shooting an animal in its’ south end as it is heading due north – yes, in the ass while the animal is facing away from you.

The first time I was party to this tactic was on my first safari, when my Zambian PH instructed me to shoot the third of three running greater kudu at about one hundred yards out while they ran past a small opening in the bush. While drawing blood, my shot was a touch low and barely slowed the kudu’s stride as it ran for cover. Before I could even discuss our next move, my PH raised his double barrel .470 Merkel and sent a 500-grain bullet directly up the kudu’s backside at about one hundred yards. The kudu ran another seventy-five yards and dropped. My PH pointed to the steep hills on our left and explained if he did not shoot then, we would be climbing those hills, in the heat, for the next few hours tracking blood and if lucky enough to find my kudu, we would then have to carry the trophy back down. As I was a novice at the time, I was grateful to have my trophy in front of me and did not mind my PH making that executive decision.

For those doubters of the effectiveness of a Texas heart shot, I can personally attest that a well-placed bullet will either find its way to the vitals if shot directly up the backside as was the case with my kudu or it will do enough damage to stop the animal for a quick mercy shot. In fact, this past year I had two such examples myself. In both cases, instead of watching my PH shoot my trophy, I had no choice but to use a Texas heart shot or risk losing my trophy all together. In the most recent case, it was shoot fast or watch the animal run into an area where the guide had pre-warned, we could not track an injured animal.

Allow me to set the stage. My dear friend Pete and I were in West Texas chasing aoudad. Aoudads are also known as Barbary sheep which, despite its name, are neither a sheep nor a goat – it has its own genus. This may sound odd chasing African game indigenous to the mountains in North Africa, in Texas. However, aoudads were introduced to West Texas in the 1950s and have thrived ever since. A sizable number of hunters, ranchers and wildlife management professionals would say they have done too well, both crowding out desert bighorn sheep and threatening wild sheep by passing on disease. Aoudads are now considered an evasive species and can be hunted year-round. Unlike other African species in Texas that are referred to “Pasture Art” for the rich and famous, most aoudad are free range and make for a challenging hunt, where one often has to climb steep hills like when chasing desert bighorn sheep.

Enough about the origins of African animals in Texas – let’s relive the hunt. My initial shot was taken late in the morning with my Griffin & Howe Highlander .300 Win Mag off my small tripod while sitting with my pack in my lap for stability in a howling wind facing downhill at 350 yards. The wind was welcome as it let me fumble around in the rocks while I set up as the aoudad stayed bedded down below out of the wind and oblivious of me. When they finally moved, the guide had me follow three big rams in the herd that were grouped together. The guide initially instructed me to follow the second in line. However, when the lead ram stepped up on a rock in the open sun, I found him more appealing. In the end my guide said to pick the one I most fancied. I kept adjusting my scope for more distance as the rams meandered away from us and when the lead one stopped and turned broadside with its long chaps glowing in the sun, I took aim on its front left shoulder and squeezed the trigger. I could hear the bullet hit it, making a loud noise that sounded like the crack of a whip. My guide confirmed it was a solid hit. Before we could even think about retrieving the ram, the guide quickly turned his attention to the running herd knowing we had to get Pete a ram too. My guide told me he could see my aoudad walking off clearly affected by the shot. “We will come back for him later, he said. I was not bothered given his quiet confidence.

We spent the next hour or so chasing the same herd trying to get Pete an opportunity, but unfortunately there were too many eyes on us, and they could feel the pressure. We needed to back off and let them settle. We turned back towards the cliffs from where I had made my shot. From the ledge, our guide pointed way down and across the ravine to a light green bush.

“It is the one with the dark green tree just below it at the bottom,” he pointed out. After I confirmed I could see where he was pointing, he said the aoudad would be down somewhere near that tree. Again, I appreciated his confidence. My guide lightened his pack and Pete left his pack and rifle in the buggy. I took my pack, shooting stick and my rifle which still had two bullets in it – do not ask why I did not load a third bullet. I did remember to open the scope aperture back up and dial the distance turret back to zero. Off we went to make our way to the bottom picking our way through the loose shale. At least an hour and 45 minutes had passed since my initial shot. I walked along the bottom of the ravine, and my guide crossed it and stayed higher up than me for a better vantage point. He told me to get ready, he could see the aoudad under the tree as predicted. As he alerted me, I caught sight of the horns under the tree, and I could see the ram start to bolt.

This was one of those hero or zero moments. I had a small window to the right of the tree as the ravine hooked left and out of sight after the tree. I shouldered my rifle as if I were pheasant shooting, and through the scope I could only see the tail end of the ram. Without hesitation I pulled the trigger at the moving animal. I quickly moved down the ravine past the tree and could see I had dropped the ram taking out his hind legs. With my last bullet I quickly applied a mercy shot. I had my trophy. Thank goodness that my scope was reset, and I did not need a third bullet.

A fine aoudad trophy with horns more than 30 inches – note the beautiful chaps.

A fine aoudad trophy with horns more than 30 inches (note the beautiful chaps).

My second example happened less than two months prior, when I was in the Selous Game Preserve in Tanzania. After successfully chasing Cape buffalo, greater kudu and Nyasa wildebeest, we set out to find a Roosevelt sable, the smallest of the three sables, only indigenous to the Selous. On our second long drive looking for them in the hills, we followed a dried riverbed for a long while until the terrain transformed into a sea of long grass. Our head tracker spotted a set of sweeping horns within the grass. My PH instructed the driver to stop. I grabbed my Griffin & Howe Highlander .300 Win Mag and hopped off the Land Cruiser. My PH set the sticks next to the vehicle and I aimed for a neck shot given I could not see the body of the animal within the dense grass and our angle was not ideal. The sable turned and started to move away from us uphill. If sable start to run, they will keep running for a long distance, so my instinctive action was to administer a Texas heart shot in the small window I had within the grass which stopped the sable in its tracks. A final mercy shot finished the job and I had my Roosevelt Sable. It was a spectacular trophy, I must say.

While we are all taught how to shoot a broadside animal and, in some cases, a frontal shot, there are other shots that can be used. Again, without debating whether a Texas heart shot should be your initial shot on an animal, it is an essential shot to know if you have an injured animal that may take flight.

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The First Lion

Big Gun for the Little Lady

Our 139-mile Elephant Hunt

Respect the River

Gin-Trapped Buffalo Leads to the Fall of a Zimbabwean Icon

There is a Time and Place for Everything

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