By Matt Blymire

I am a 40-year-old from Pennsylvania who grew up hunting whitetail deer with my dad.  I started hunting with him at the age of 12 which was the legal minimum age in Pennsylvania, and then continued hunting deer on my own.  Now married, with nine-year-old twin boys, I get to hunt whitetail deer with my wife and sons who can now hunt on a Mentored Youth program in Pennsylvania.  I have taken many trips to Ohio to spend a few days hunting whitetails with my father, reminiscing about the years I hunted with him growing up, and all that he’s taught me.

Over the past years my dad has taken many trips to Africa hunting with Dubula Safaris in the Eastern Cape.  He has shared hunts there with his friends, past co-workers and made many friends on his safaris.  Dad asked my every trip to go along but with hectic family life, finding the time was difficult.  I remember saying “Maybe next time” or “When the boys get older” or “Hopefully in a few years.”

In the fall of 2022, my dad’s mom passed away unexpectedly, but I just got to her in time. Fast forward to March of 2023.  I learned I was unsuccessful in drawing my Montana Deer Tag yet again, and I called my dad telling him as I was looking to plan a different hunting trip in the States.  He suggested I came with him and my wife to Africa in September.  This time the words felt different.  Life at home was still hectic, nothing had changed, but what did change was learning in such a hard way just six months before how valuable life is with your family, and how quickly it can change and be taken away.  I submitted my time off request at work that same day, and once approved booked our flight for my first African safari with my wife and parents.

I flew to Newark Airport to meet them, and we arrived in Johannesburg the next evening and were greeted by staff from the Afton Lodge, for a one-night stay before our flight into Port Elizabeth the next morning.  The Afton was an extraordinary way to kick off the African safari experience.  The lodge was beautiful, the food and drinks were amazing, and the staff was superb.  Looking at all the taxidermy in the lodge and listening to the stories of hunters who were on their way home had me excited for my hunt to begin.  I could barely sleep that night from excitement.

In Port Elizabeth we were picked up by Ryan from Dubula Safaris. On the way we stopped at Hunters & Collectors Taxidermy shop to look at some of the taxidermy work in progress from my dad’s previous safari.  Seeing the extensive number of mounted animals in the shop had me even more excited. On the way to the lodge, we stopped at the Nanaga Farm Stall where I was introduced to some South African culture seeing the local foods, produce and drinks.

The evening that we arrived at the lodge I was amazed at the beauty of the landscape and the mountainous terrain. Even after seeing pictures and videos from my dad’s previous trips, it was beyond my expectation. I was greeted warmly by everyone at Dubula Safaris and met my PH Ricky. We discussed the animals on my list with kudu being my top animal, and a zebra because my wife and I wanted a zebra rug. 

The first night in the lodge I was too excited to sleep.  Morning came quickly and my dad and I went outside onto the porch and there were animals everywhere.  The amount of game I could see with my binoculars was nothing I could have imagined.  After breakfast we went to the rifle range and confirmed my dad’s .30-06 was shooting accurately and we planned the morning hunt.  We soon spotted a group of zebras in an open area but stalked unsuccessfully.  We came out of a dry creek and a beautiful blue wildebeest stood in front of us.  Ricky said it was great male and if I wanted a blue, I should shoot this one. Only the night before Ricky had said they were tough animals and will rarely go straight down with one shot.  We waited for the blue to turn and Ricky said, “On the shoulder halfway up.”  I steadied on the sticks and squeezed the trigger. He went straight down!  What a way to start the hunt.  A few hours into the trip, one shot and one animal down.

As we hunted the next few days, we saw so many species of animals it was almost hard to comprehend.  It brought a lot of clarity to the discussion Ricky and I had on my flexibility of huntable animals.  I was successful on the second evening with the targeted zebra close to where we had seen them the first day. That evening the sunset and nightfall was gorgeous, like something you would see in a book or in a painting.  The third day had us hunting around the lodge for plains game.  I had seen in the first few days a white blesbok. I thought they were neat-looking animals.  As the hunt continued, we saw a few white blesboks in a large herd, but they were winning the stalking game.  Then a common blesbok stepped into an opening in the bush, and Ricky said it was a very good common, so I steadied on the sticks and took the shot.

While enjoying our midday break, I discussed with my dad a black springbok we had seen the first morning, but had not seen again, and I said that a black wildebeest was only a bit more pricewise.  He agreed that it would be great to get a blue and a black on my first trip.  When we met Ricky prior to the evening hunt, we said we would like a black wildebeest and he planned to target them in an area we might also see kudu.   We spotted a small group of blacks and Ricky identified a shooter in that group.  We made a long stalk and got into position.  We had to wait for the shooter male among the other animals in the herd to give us a clean shot.  As the sun began to fade behind the mountains he presented a shot, at which the small group turned out to be a thundering herd of over 30 animals.

Wednesday morning came and we made the trip to Kamala and began our hunt there.  A few hours into the hunt we found a tsessebe, and my dad made a successful stalk and took his target animal. We saw so many animals on this property and I got to see animals I hadn’t yet seen including gemsbok, ostriches, golden gemsbok and more.  We again saw a large black springbok but could not get the opportunity for a shot at it.  On the way back for our lunch break we found a great impala ram and I was lucky to take it.  After lunch we went to a cliff overlooking a dry creek as they had seen warthogs there.  A warthog was on my list, but I said I only wanted to shoot one for a nice European mount.  We saw warthogs but they were female and cull males.  My mom, who hadn’t hunted before decided she would take a shot at the cull male.  Ricky worked extraordinarily well with her and got her set up, and she made a perfect shot for her first ever animal.  What a great experience for us all to share this.

As the afternoon went on Ricky spotted a big fallow deer, and I realized from his tone that it was a trophy and that if we saw it again, I’d like to hunt it.  Later, we glassed a large eland but it wasn’t something I wanted, so we hunted on and as luck would have it spotted the fallow deer again.  After a very short stalk we bumped the deer but were able to get on the sticks, and when he stopped and presented me with a shot, I took it.  We followed the blood and found the deer. As we grabbed his antlers the ground shook under our feet as four warthogs bolted out from a wallow.  While it was a cool experience, I was a bit startled as they ran out from underneath us.

Ricky quickly spotted a shooter male.  I got set up on the sticks and made a successful shot.  What a great way to end this hunting safari, getting all three wildebeests on the same hunt.

This trip exceeded any expectations I had. The staff at the lodge were superb, the food was amazing, with sights and memories I would never have imagined.  As the sun set on my first African safari, I cannot wait to begin booking my next with Dubula Safaris. I am so grateful to my parents for making this trip possible and for sharing it with me. 

By Enrich Hugo

West Africa has a special appeal not only for hunters. The mix of geographically diverse zones offers savannahs, marsh and rainforest lovers plenty of opportunities to explore fauna and flora. This time is Benin our hunting destination. This elongated, small West African country is considered the cradle of the voodoo religion. In Abomey you can visit the old royal palaces as well as the voodoo temples. The capital is Porto Novo. The international airport where our journey start is in Cotonou. A typical West African city. Stinky, hectic and a lot of traffic. Surprisingly fast, by African standards, are the immigration formalities, and weapons import documents are done by customs and police.

After that, the luggage will be stowed in the waiting Land Cruiser. Our host and outfitter from Pendjari Safaris wants to start as soon as possible. It is still early in the morning and he wants to reach the end of the city of Cotonou before morning traffic starts. Ahead of us is a nine-hour drive. Cotonou is located on the southern border of Benin, directly on the Gulf of Guinea.

Our destination and camp is located in the north of the country, on the edge of the National Park Pendjari.

The 700-kilometer drive gives us another insight into this, for West African conditions, very stable and peaceful country. No religious or racial tensions make Benin a special oasis in West Africa and is gently governed by a democratically elected government. The influence of the former French colonial era can not be denied and is reflected not only in the French official language. The main income of Benin, one of the poorest countries in the world, comes from agriculture. In addition to corn, sweet potatoes, cashew and pineapple, it is mainly the large cotton plantations that catch the eye. It is exactly this cotton that we can see again and again on completely overloaded trucks on our way to Batia.

After about eight hours driving we leave the paved road and after another hour on a sandy road we reach our camp. In addition to the typical round huts stands a completely newly built building with four rooms. Each bedroom with its own bathroom and toilet and of course with air conditioning. Anyone who has ever hunted in West Africa will be extremely pleasantly surprised here. After a long shower, we meet again at dinner. There we will also be introduced to the two professional hunters and our trackers, who will guide us in the next few days. One of the two professional hunters is a Portuguese, who works in Benin from December to May, during the hunting season in Benin, and earns his living as a professional hunter from June to November in Mozambique. The second professional hunter comes from neighboring Burkina Faso and has been working here for over 15 years as a professional hunter with Pendjari Safaris. How valuable the experience of our two professional hunters is will already evident on the following first hunting day.

We take the first day of our hunt calmly and after a good breakfast we go out for the first terrain exploration. The camp is located on the edge of a small village. The people wave friendly to us and children run after our car. Here, too, the ethical and serious hunt has written its success story. Conservation programs, a rigorous anti- poaching, and appreciation for wildlife has contributed to the development of not only a high stock of wildlife but also a small but considerable wealth in their village. Not only the meat of the hunted game support to the local villages with protaine, also a large part of the revenue of the trophy fees is used to expand the infrastructure. After twenty minutes we are already in our hunting zone. Here my two hunting clients check their weapons and after a threefold series, it’s ready to go. Khalid has opted for a double rifle 9.3×74 and my second hunting guest Rodrigo leads a 375 H&H. Our hunting area is especially known for its abundance of Western savannah buffalo and Western roan antelope. But also Western Hartebeest, Nagor Reedbock, Harnest Bushbuck, Defassa Waterbuck, Oribi, Warthog and two different Duiker are huntable here. We chose the month of January for our hunt and therefore the high grass is not dry enough to burn it down. Despite the sometimes high grass level, we can still recognize the typical savannah character. Small to medium sized bushes and trees dominate the landscape in addition to the extensive grassy areas. The first game drive should serve primarily to get a small overview of our hunting area, but after one of our professional hunters has discovered fresh tracks of buffalo is instantly aroused our hunting fever.

Khalid gets the preference and we start our first stalking in the Savannah of Benin. As usual, the stalking is led by one of the trackers. Then Burkina, as our professional hunter from Burkina Faso is affectionately called and then Khalid the Hunter. Because of the tracks we estimate that it has to be a smaller group of five to eight buffaloes. The tracks are relatively fresh and since they are not particularly deep, it also tells us that they are moving slowly ahead of us. The direction of the wind is also perfect and after about an hour of stalking we see the small buffalo herd in front of us. As already suspected, there are six Savannah buffalos. Four cows and two bulls. This little group already shows us the special of the Western savanna buffalo here in Benin. It is the variegation of these buffaloes. From almost black to dark brown but also reddish, the buffalos are colored here and very often these different colors are found in one and the same herd. That is also the case here. The Western savanna buffalo is the third largest buffalo species in Africa alongside the Cape and Nile buffalo. Despite the successful stalking we do not come to a conclusion. The two bulls are too young and should be given the opportunity to pass on their very good genetic before they get hunted. But no reason to be disappointed. On the contrary, the first stalk was already excellent and we had a successful overview. Our trackers and professional hunters have been able to prove their skills and experience at the first stalk, and my two hunters already have the feeling that they are in good hands. After a short time we are back on the road where our car is waiting. After a little refreshment we continued our game drive. We pass two larger waterholes that are full of tracks but due to the time of day no game can be seen. Since there are some larger trees next to the last waterhole and the sun is directly above us at the highest point, we set our lunch break here. A shady place with a great view.

Hunter heart, what do you want more. Lunch tastes particularly good here and we enjoy the boundless freedom in the middle of West African nature. But after a long rest, things continue. It is already an hour before sunset when Burkina gives the driver the sign to stop. He points to the east and still the sun is in our backs, I can see nothing without my binoculars. Burkina instructs me and with the help of the binoculars I can then also recognize what he has already identified only with his eye. A dark, almost black dyed Dagga Boy, as here also the single living buffalo bulls are called. You can already clearly see Khalid’s excitement. The buffalo is 300 meters away and our professional hunter decides at short notice that he will only stalk with Khalid and 

a tracker. The terrain between us and the bull is too open and too many people would make it much easier for the buffalo to discover us. Me, Rodrigo, and the rest of the team follow the stalk out of good hidden place. The buffalo is still grazing and shows no suspicion even though Khalid and Burkina are only 50 meters away from him. I can see that Khalid have his gun on the shooting stick and is already aiming the bull. The shot does not wait. The buffalo immediately draws and breaks to the right. 

After ten meters he stops and the second shot breaks. Although the first shot was excellent for me and in my opinion a deadly hit, the second hit finally drops the Bull to the ground. When Burkina and Khalid are by the buffalo and both give us signs to come, we are on the way to go to the harvest buffalo. Of course, a heartfelt congratulation the shooter and congratulation to the professional hunter to this successful conclusion of the first hunting day. A really old fighter lies here in knee-high grass. Numerous traces show of old turf wars and one or the other scar suggests that he was also the target of attacks of lions. An excellent launch. Khalid is overjoyed and describes in detail the course of the stalking and the killing of the buffalo. The loading of the bull is routine for our experienced team and then it’s back to the camp.

Loading the buffalo.

Stalking

However, it is important for my hunting clients to prepare for such a hunt so far that they can handle even those thirsty streaks that a savannah hunt entails and that they do not lose the desire for the further safari. For Khalid and Rodrigo, however, the last three unsuccessful days leave no trace. On the contrary, I have the impression that they absorb everything in and this hunting trip will keep a special positive memory. The sixth day of hunting is again at its best. On this day we return very successfully to the camp. A West African Hartebeest, a Harnest Bushbuck and a Nagor Reedbock could be killed after successful stalking. We were able to detect and shoot the latter two at two different waterholes. Now only the buffalo of Rodrigo falls to complete a completely successful safari. Two days are still available and we look forward to these days. The penultimate day is already starting promising. Fresh traces of a larger herd. We try to stalk these herds. We succeed and I count more than twenty Savannah buffaloes. It is a mixed herd with cows, calves and also some bulls. I even see two of the reddish colored bulls what Rodrigo wants to hunt. But we do not want to shoot a buffalo out of a herd. Our goal is to find a single Dagga Boy. We just enjoy the big herd we were able to stalk so successfully and then continued our hunt. Although we can no see a red-colored loner on this day we still have plenty of material for our cameras. Herd of young roan antelopes, some hartebeest, oribis and a young waterbuck can be photographed and filmed.

The last day of our safari is approaching and this time it starts earlier. Today we want to look for the Dagga Boy in the northeastern corner of our hunting zone. The idea does not come from somewhere. Some of the rangers employed by our outfitter, who implemented the anti-poaching program and are busy patrolling the hunting grounds, have just seen a reddish bull at this northeast corner. And just where these rangers last saw the bull, we also find him. An old, mature bull. The red is almost reminiscent of a forest buffalo occurring in the rainforest, but which is much smaller than the Western savannah buffalo. An absolute dream buffalo. This time, Jorge, the professional hunter from Portugal, introduces us. The buffalo stands in the shade of some trees and the wind is excellent for us. I estimate between 250 to 300 meters separate us from the bull. Jorge, Rodrigo a tracker and myself start the stalking. Each step is checked twice. Just no hasty movement or a careless kick now. Suddenly Jorge stops petrified. He makes us understand that we should not move and shows something in the left direction of our stalk. An elephant bull watches our approach. A fantastic experience to experience the elephant so close but still we are glad when he makes off and pulls back into the dense undergrowth. Finally we can continue our stalking. Our buffalo seems to have heard and seen nothing of all this. The rangefinder in my binoculars shows 80 meters. After another 15 meters and a tree with perfect rifle rest Rodrigo is ready to go. The weapon is already unlocked and he just waits until the buffalo shows him his broadside. I can understand that this moment has to fill up like hours for him. Finally the time has come. Uncovered with the full side of the bull shows up and the finger writhes on the trigger. The red draws immediately and breaks in place in the fire. Jorge keeps track and asks Rodrigo to reload immediately. After another minute, Jorge gives the ok and all-clear and lets Rodrigo secure the weapon. It needs no further shot. A red colored buffalo with an extremely strong trophy lies in front of us. We give Rodrigo alone for a few minutes with his harvest bull. A sensitive moment that probably every hunter can understand too well.

With this last buffalo we killed on this hunt we can say that we had a hundred percent success. The passing of Benin ends with a promise from the two hunters. We are infected with the Savannah virus and we promise to see each other again when it says: Savannah hunting in Benin!

By Buzz Nady 

This whole thing started in September 2021. I was at Afton, Richard Lendrum’s lodge in Joburg. Richard was promoting a raffle in The African Hunting Gazette magazine, and the grand prize was a SSB Rigby Rifle in .416 Rigby! A proper buffalo rifle! I took a ticket and headed back to the States to start harvesting with my two sons on our farms, not giving a thought to the raffle. I never win.

The first week of November I got a call from Richard.

“I suppose you called to say I didn’t win the rifle,” I laughed.

“Just the opposite,” said Richard, “you did win the rifle!” I was ecstatic, to say the least. After paperwork and emails back and forth with Maria Gil of Rigby in London, my rifle was shipped to their importer in Texas and then to my gun dealer in my hometown of Nevada, Iowa. 

What a rifle! I immediately started planning a buffalo hunt with Pete Barnard, owner of Pete Barnard Safaris in Harare, Zimbabwe. Pete and I have been friends for over a quarter century, and he was the guy I wanted to hunt with. Plans were made for September 2023, and practicing with my Rigby started immediately at the range on my farm. Eighteen months and 150 rounds later I felt ready and was on my way to Zimbabwe. 

I spent a couple days with Pete and his family just to relax, and then with Pete, Manager and Manuel we headed about 390 km to a beautiful camp in the Gache Gache area in the Zambezi valley and met the camp owner Corris Ferreria. We had a couple of beers as we watched a herd of elephant across the river, drinking. The whole camp is run on solar power converted to 12V with great staff of cooks, house cleaners and skinners to take care of us. Had a great meal that first night, took my Malaron, and was off to bed.

DAY 1

Day one began with Pete, me, and the team – Manager, Manu and Cry the trackers, Koda and Ragoon the game scouts. We sighted in the rifles and went looking for buffalo. Leaving camp we saw lion, some impala and elephant, and after finding a good set of Dagga Boy tracks, we set out on foot to track him. Ran into some elephant and decided to go around them and pick up the buffalo tracks on the other side! En route, we found a beautiful old bushbuck. Without hesitation, I got on the sticks with my .416 Rigby and got him.

Suddenly the bush erupted. Some elephants close by did not like the shot, and they did not like us there. Game on! Pete was hollering, “Run, run,” as he stood his ground between my trackers and me to make sure everyone was safe, and out of harm’s way. After the dust settled, we went and collected my bushbuck. Picked up the buffalo tracks again and looking down I saw a bunch of elephant hair, and I handed it to Manager. He is talented in using it to make bracelets. On our way back to camp, we saw more impala and a nice herd of about 35 eland, all females with little ones. On the banks of the Gache Gache River that flows into Lake Kariba, quite close to the lake, we saw a few small pods of hippo and decided to take a walkabout and get a closer look. Got to within 50 meters of one group but decided not to take the shot. We did need a hippo for bait for crocodile but wanted to take care of the bushbuck first.

DAY 2

We were up at 5 a.m. had some breakfast and coffee and took off looking for buffalo tracks. Found a nice set to follow, but after being busted twice we finally got up to the buffalo only to have the wind start playing games with us, so decided to give up the tracks and look for hippo for crocodile bait. Mid-morning the hippo started coming out of the Gache Gache River to sun themselves. Finally, a big bull clambered onto an island and after careful examination with the binoculars, Pete said it was the one we wanted. I put a good heart-lung shot on the hippo and got a second shot into him as he went into the water. He came up and we worked our way around and I finished him with a side brain shot in the water. The massive hippo sank, came up, and I could see I had hit his brain. When he went back under the water and stayed there, we decided to go have lunch and wait for him to bloat and float to the surface.

We went back out after lunch looking for the hippo and did not find it and spent the rest of the afternoon searching. Gave up, and on the way back to camp that evening we saw a herd of approximately 350 to 400 buffalo on the plains down by Lake Kariba. Topped off the day with an excellent dinner and beverages. 

DAY 4…

started early. We went back to find a couple of Dagga Boys we’d seen earlier, and we found them. They don’t get old by being stupid. They winded us as the wind would change often. Busted! Off they’d go. After stalking buffalo all morning, we saw lots of nice crocodiles and after lunch we collected Corris’s Bruno .30-06 for crocodile.

We went to shoot the Bruno, but it just didn’t fit me. It just didn’t feel right, but Pete’s .375 was perfect, and we headed to Croc Central on the Gache Gache. Some local native fishermen had moved in to where we wanted to look for crocs. Plenty of crocs there, but they had all gone into the water because of the natives fishing, so we went instead to find our two Dagga Boys.

Manu and Cry cut the tracks of the two nyati, and it was game on. Because of the brush, Pete wanted me to load a solid .400-gr Woodleigh. After several attempts, we decided to give the bulls a half-hour break and let them calm down, which paid off. The day was getting late, and this would be our last chance. The third time we found them, they spotted us again as they have sharp eyes and a keen sense of smell. I got on the sticks as they were walking away.

My bull presented a shot at a hundred meters, broadside. I let the Woodleigh fly, hitting its mark on his shoulder. The bull jumped and took off. Pete could tell by the sound that the bull was hit well. We ran, catching up to the bull, and I let a 400-gr Barnes TSX fly, hitting the bull just behind the shoulder again. We ran after him. He stopped again and I put a second TSX Into his shoulder. Bull down! We got up to him and I put one more soft into him just for insurance and good measure. I had my bull! It was close to sundown. Picture time with Pete and my team!

We loaded the bull and headed to camp.

DAY 5

We left camp around 7 a.m. and headed to Croc Central to look for my hippo and a nice crocodile. Didn’t see my hippo floating anywhere in the river and the crocs were out sunning themselves! We went back to camp, had lunch, and then headed out again. No hippo floating! I was getting concerned about what was going on with the hippo.

I knew I put a great shot right on the shoulder, and then the head shot as well. We spent the afternoon looking at different crocodiles and sizing them up. Nothing that really tripped our trigger, so we drove around trying to shoot a couple guinea fowl for supper. Only got one. Had supper and called it a day. 

DAY 6

Pete, the trackers, game scouts and I headed out again looking for my hippo! With lots of native fishermen about, we were starting to wonder if maybe they had found it and cut it up and taken it. After searching many bays on the river, we felt it quite odd that the three pods of hippo had kind of disappeared. We hadn’t seen them since day two after I shot my hippo. 

Back to the camp for lunch and a little nap afterwards, then loaded up and went looking for crocodile as they would be up on the banks sunning themselves at this time of the day. Pete found one he really liked, and we tried to put the sneak on him. Got to about 50 meters, and were just getting the sticks up, when he slithered into the water. He must’ve seen movement from one of us.

Pete decided it was time we put a blind up and use some buffalo remains from my buffalo for bait. Blind and bait were set for us to come back in the morning. Back to looking for guinea fowl on the way back to camp for supper. Got one guinea fowl with the .22 and gave it to the boys for their supper. 

DAY 7

Had breakfast then went to check the crocodile bait. To our surprise, we saw a hippo out floating in the bay! Could this be my hippo? Corris’s staff showed up with the tractor, trailer and boat and got the hippo to the shore. Sure enough, the side-brain shot told the story – it was, in fact, my hippo!

I was excited and relieved all at the same time. One, I had my trophy and two, we had more crocodile bait. The guys built another blind 50 meters from the hippo and Pete and I went back to the blind we had built the day before, freshened it up with some hippo meat, and we got into the blind at about 11 a.m., each of us with a book to read. 

We heard the splash in the water 30 minutes later and focused on the bait with our binoculars, as the crocs started coming in. By noon the crocodiles were stacked in there like cordwood. I couldn’t believe it. The feeding frenzy that was going on! Twelve-foot crocodiles, biting on the hippo, doing the death roll to tear a piece off and then gobble it down. After nearly three hours in the blind, Pete saw the croc we wanted, on the bait and eating. Through my little portal, I could see at least 20-25 crocodile around the bait. And I have no idea how many more were around outside my field of view. 

Finally, our crocodile got into a position we liked, slightly quartering away from me. I was using Pete’s .375 H&H with a scope. I put the crosshairs just below the horn and a little bit to the left and squeezed. The crocodile dropped immediately. I quickly loaded another round and put one right behind his shoulder for insurance. I had my crocodile! Congratulations, handshakes and pictures followed. Back to camp to get the crocodile to the skinners. Coris put the tape on him and measured 13‘8”. What a crocodile and what a day in the blind watching them feed, death rolling, ripping meat off the hippo. Time for lunch. It was three in the afternoon. 

We would go out in the evening just to look at the baits and see what kind of activity there was and try to find a couple of guinea fowl for supper. There’s nothing like a great bowl of guinea fowl soup! But I think the guinea fowl were on to us. They like to run and then fly at the sound of the Land Cruiser. But we did shoot two francolins – we’d see what the chef could do with those for tomorrow night’s dinner. 

At dinner that night Corris mentioned he had a fellow PH who needed some bait for leopard, and asked if we would shoot four impala for him the next morning. Of course, I obliged and said I would be happy to help out.

DAY 8

Coffee and toast to start the day, then off to try to collect a few impala. Found a herd, and I shot one male from the group. Drove around for another couple hours, but nothing presented itself, so we headed back to camp. A cup of coffee, and we started getting things ready for fishing that afternoon. After lunch, we took a little nap as it was the hot time of the day. About 3 o’clock we loaded up the boat and headed down to the Gache Gache.

It was a slow afternoon on the river – we caught a few catfish and saw a few elephant on the bank. Very cool! Around the campfire and supper that night, Pete and I talked about looking for Sharpe’s Grysbok in the morning.

DAY 9

Got up early, had coffee and breakfast. It had cooled down nicely last evening and night, so it was good sleeping. Didn’t need my solar-powered fan. We loaded up the Cruiser and were headed to the bush by 5.30 looking for Sharpe’s Grysbok. Saw a female with a little one. They are nicknamed ‘greased lightning’ here because when you see him they’re gone immediately. On the way back to camp we saw a herd of probably 300 buffalo and 250 impala. 

Pete got a call from his wife, Laura with a new mission for the kids: Picking up different kinds of dung or spoor for show and tell at school. 

A short lunch nap and we were heading back to the river to fish. Barbels and squeakers were what we were catching. Back at the river, we encountered some fish poachers that Corris took care of. The lake and river were low as we made our way up the river. We encountered two pods of about 30 to 40 hippos each. What excitement that was! One young bull decided to show off his stuff to scare us away. Quite impressive when you have a two-and-a-half-ton of hippo coming at you.

Another beautiful sunset over the river and we headed back to camp for supper.

DAY 10

Breakfast was early. Corris asked if we would shoot two more impala, one for camp meat, and one for the game scouts. Of course! Pete and I and the trackers headed out to look for Sharpe’s grysbok. Didn’t see any, so back to camp for lunch. 

I will have to look for grysbok the next time, as this was the last day of hunting, and we wanted to go fishing again in the afternoon… Looking for that elusive tigerfish!

If you want to know more about this African Dawn Outfitter – Click here Pete Barnard Safaris

Abigail with her white-horned blesbok bull at the Hotfire property.

By Abigail Prevost

I was not sure what to expect when we stepped off the plane in East London, but I got the feeling that the next two weeks were going to be something incredible – and my gut feeling was correct. We would be leaving with the experience of a lifetime and were already planning to come back in the next few years to this stunningly wild country.

My family and I spent the first two weeks of June in the Eastern Cape of South Africa at Hotfire Safaris, near Cathcart. After being in the air for almost 24 hours and taking three different planes from Calgary and finally to East London, we were all so excited to put our feet on the ground we would be hunting on. After collecting our bags, we were greeted by the two PHs from Hotfire, Pat and Ryan, whose light-hearted banter was the perfect cure for our airplane hangover.

The five of us split into two cars – Ryan took my older brother Jonah and his girlfriend Farrah while Pat took me, my younger brother Spencer, and my father Dean. As we drove the two hours north through the Eastern Cape to reach the property, I was stunned into silence by the beauty of the landscape. Maybe it was because I had never been on the African continent and the geography was so different from the dryness of Southern Alberta and the Canadian Rockies, but each rolling hillside we passed seemed more beautiful than the last. When the sun finally set, the blue sky was quickly replaced with a blanket of stars – more than I had ever seen in one place. I was again in awe of this country I knew so little about.

At Hotfire, we had wonderfully designed tents for accommodations (including heated blankets which was greatly appreciated since we seemed to have forgotten that Canada is not the only country that gets cold in the winter) and a fantastic meal of local game accompanied by an array of delicious traditional side dishes. After dinner, we sat by a roaring fire with Ryan and Pat, getting to know one another. While everyone laughed around the fire, I was feeling a little bit nervous about the hunt the next day – it had been a few months since I’d held a rifle and I worried that I would be out of practice. This was also going to be my first big-game hunt.

The next morning, we headed out for some target practice. After hitting the swinging yellow target 100 meters away a few times, I felt much more confident in my shot.  Then in two cars we were off for our first taste of an African hunt. Ryan took Jonah, Farrah, and a pre-64 model 70 Winchester in .270 to search for a kudu bull and although the rest of us wished him luck, we were secretly hoping that it would be us who got the first animal of the trip.

Within a half hour of leaving target practice, Pat’s tracker Ayunda, had identified a few blesbok in the bush. We made 

our way in, following Pat towards the spot where he and Ayunda had seen it – stopping every so often for Pat to point out various species of wildlife. Then we dropped off Spencer and Dean to wait while Pat and I moved closer to the blesbok. (We found out later that they had got up close and personal with a warthog while we were gone.) Pat handed me the Mauser 98 in .270 with a suppressor, warning me, “It’s live,” before clicking on the safety.

Jonah with his nyala bull on the Hotfire property.

Bent-kneed and hunched over, we slowly crept through the bush with the rocks, trees, and brush giving us cover. When we were as close as we could get without the four blesbok bulls spotting us, Pat spread the shooting sticks and I lifted the rifle onto the stand and got comfortable. Through the scope I could see the four bulls running around, and Pat told me to look for the one whose horns had turned white at the front as that indicated that he was quite an old bull. The blesbok were unaware of our presence but kept hiding behind trees and lying down. After standing ready for a while and realizing the bull was not going to give us a shot from that position, Pat found another angle, and this time when I looked through the scope, I had a broadside shot on the old bull. The nerves started to come back once the safety was switched off and I felt a little shaky. I steadied myself with a deep breath, centered the scope on the spot above his front left leg, and gently squeezed the trigger as I breathed out. I reloaded but in the time that it took me to get a second bullet in the chamber, the bull jumped, then dropped down a few meters away. I could barely hear Pat’s congratulatory, “Nice shot” over my pounding heartbeats from by excitement and shock.

Meanwhile, at the other end of Hotfire, Ryan, Jonah and Farrah were stalking a kudu bull, Jonah’s first animal of the safari. He made such an impressive shot from one cliff across a valley to another cliff that we almost forgot about the truly gruelling trek that it took for us to get up there to help bring the animal down, and it took ten of us all together to carry the bull and the equipment – needless to say that we earned our dinner that night, which again was delicious.

After that first day, we fell into a routine: hunt in the morning, return to camp for lunch, go back out in the afternoon, return to camp, and sit around the fire talking until dinner. It was a routine that I really enjoyed, especially the evening fire. It was the perfect way to close each day’s hunt and wind down for the night.

At the end of our six days of hunting, we each had a trophy and many memories to take home to Canada. But Ryan and Pat were not finished with us just yet – we still had a week to go. We spent the afternoon of our seventh day bird hunting near Stutterheim, camouflaged behind huge stalks of corn. The hunt itself was enhanced by the sun slowly sinking over the horizon till it finally set and colored the sky just above to a faded purple, signalling that it was time to pack up.

Patrick, Ayunda, and Spencer looking for warthogs on the Hotfire property.

Later in the afternoon we came across an Addo elephant. I knew they were big, but I truly had no idea how big until one came up right beside our Land Cruiser and I saw the size of its tusks and the length of its trunk. Though it was moving slowly, each step it took covered a lot of ground.

Spencer with his warthog on the Hotfire property.

From Johannesburg to Port Alfred, we covered a lot of ground in just fourteen days. We went big-game hunting, bird hunting, fly fishing, elephant spotting, and deep-sea fishing – and we can’t wait to come back and do it all again.

By Enrich Hugo

The smoke stings something in the lungs and the ash particles that whirl through the air tickle the nostrils. And occasionally we had to deal with glow around us. In addition to the ash, the air is full of insects and other small crawlies. Wherever you look, there are birds of prey that, in breathtaking maneuvers, catch mice and other small mammals fleeing from the fire.

We were in the north of Uganda, near the border to South Sudan, where the dry grass is being burned down to provide the soil with new nutrients that grow fresh green grass. As well as the abundant waterholes, this nutritious green grass provides the base for a thriving and diverse wildlife in Uganda. The Dark Continent wears many shades of green in Uganda, leaving no doubt as to why it is called the Pearl of Africa.

The starting point of our safari was the Kidepo Valley, where our hunting area is separated from the Kidepo National Park only by a gravel road. Everywhere you looked there were big herds of oribi and Jackson’s hartebeest. But our goal this time is to hunt Nile buffalo, which is only to be hunted in Uganda. It looks very similar to the Cape buffalo that is found in Namibia, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Mozambique, Botswana and Tanzania. With a weight of 600 to 700 kilos, the Nile buffalo is about 200 kilos less than the Cape buffalo. It is a shade lighter in color than its stronger, almost black-colored cousin. Significantly more pronounced is the difference in the horn. Generally, the Nile buffalo’s horn is not as wide and has a slight downward curvature. This flatter curl gives it its characteristic beefy appearance.

Normally, I organize and accompany my hunting clients, but this time I was the hunter carrying the rifle. I was with Christian, who has been living in Uganda for years and has made a name as the leading outfitter from Uganda, and we have a long and strong friendship. I was excited and looking forward to hunting with him.

From my numerous hunting trips where I have accompanied my clients in Uganda, I know the hunting area already very well, but nevertheless I am always overwhelmed by the fauna and flora which is offered here. The temperature is extremely pleasant and there are no big differences between day and night as we know in other African hunting countries. The several light rain showers over the year are also a reason for the lush green which covers the country, but do not detract from the hunt. 

We used the first few days of the hunt to get a good overview and we repeatedly encountered large herds of Nile buffalo, which were often more than two hundred head strong, but this time we were on the way to find single bulls. Here, a buffalo is never shot out of a herd. Only old bulls expelled from the herd, known as Dagga Boys, are stalked and shot. These Dagga Boys were usually the lead bulls of their herd for years and have passed down their genetics over time. But even for these strong leadership bulls comes the time when a younger bull takes his place and he is rejected by the herd, and it is precisely this expulsion that makes the buffalo even more dangerous. These loners can no longer rely on the protection of the herd and are on their own.

Of course, the main threat is from lions, which have a much easier time attacking a single buffalo than an animal protected by a herd. Always keeping an eye on these threats makes them nervous, irritable and extremely dangerous. In some cases, several of these Dagga Boys join together in smaller groups. It is these two to five groups you must be extremely careful of.  Irritated, nervous, aggressive and an all-round radar of several pairs of eyes can define a buffalo as Dangerous Game.

We tracked one of these groups, a group of three.  They were still small black dots near the horizon, but the trained eyes of our trackers clearly confirmed them as Dagga Boys. Christian considered the situation, and we briefly discussed it with a tracker. It would not only be reckless and risky to stalk through the head-high grass between us and the buffalo, but it would also be a matter of luck if we stalked almost without knowing where to go. However, the wind was very good for us and Christian sent two of his trackers ahead.

The fire was started in a small depression and Christian explained that there was a small waterhole where the buffalo could safely go to drink. The fire that was placed on the other side of us did not bother them, and as the wind was blowing our way, they did not smell us. And indeed, the three Dagga Boys walked undeterred in our direction. The two trackers joined us and we started our stalk, crouching and often on all fours. Without the protection of the high grass, we had to now proceed very carefully. We used every bush and tree that lay between the buffalo and us to hide behind.

Everywhere there were ash particles from the fire. It smelt of burnt insects, and over our heads flights of hawks and falcons were swooping for food. Again and again Christian stopped to scan with binoculars to see what the buffalo were doing. The careful stalking took much time, but the distance was decreasing between the buffalos and us. Just as Christian foresaw, they were moving towards the waterhole. After another half hour suddenly only two of the three bulls appeared on a small edge of the terrain. Somewhere between the last two smaller hills, number three must have decided to take a break in the shelter of a group of bushes and no longer followed the other two bulls. But we needed to take extra care now. Christian instructed one of the two trackers to wait and keep an eye on this edge of the terrain, and if the third bull should appear to tell us immediately by radio.

After more than three hours of stalking, we were now very close to the waterhole. And at that precise time, the two bulls appeared. The distance was now about 40 meters between us and the buffalo. The terrain in front of us sloped down, and from our cover we could easily watch the two buffalo. Both were very old boys. Numerous scars decorated their faces and bodies, irrefutable witness of many fights with their own kind, but also remains of attacks by lions. Each bull had a huge hard boss emphasizing his age as an old warrior.  But that was not the only thing that stood out. Both bulls had similar massive testicular inflammation. In all my many years as a professional hunter and hunting companion of my hunting clients, I had never have seen anything like it. Christian shook his head and said that it was a first for him. The two must have been in hell of a pain. The testicles were red to purplish-blue and were extremely long and swollen. There was no doubt that my goal should be to kill both and free them from their agony.

I had an open sight rifle without a scope in .460 Weatherby with Mauser system, with two cartridges in the magazine and one already in the barrel. Christian as backup carried a .500 Jeffery. By now the two bulls seemed to become nervous. I do not think they were aware of us, but it may be that they have sensed a predator. I decided to take the first shot on the right buffalo. My instinct told me that the other buffalo would turn to the left and escape to the open side of the terrain. Christian was ready as my insurance.

My first shot broke and the first buffalo went down where he stood. Automatically I reloaded. The second buffalo stopped after only 10 meters to see what had happened behind him. He took two steps towards the fallen buffalo, giving me enough time to take him too. The .460 Weatherby had done a great job. After a short wait in our cover, we went to inspect the beasts, and up close the inflammation looked a lot worse than we had already seen.

We took some tissue samples which Christian later handed over to the National Park Authority. One thing was certain. The game meat that is usually handed over to the local population to provide them with much-needed protein would be destroyed in this case, and the two buffaloes left to the vultures. For safety, Christian still ordered three park rangers to guard the carcasses until only the bones were left. He did not want to take any risks in case some people from the neighboring villages decided to acquire some pieces of meat.

For me, but also for Christian, this hunt goes down in our hunting history books. Both for him in Uganda and for me personally, it was the first double with two buffalos.  It could not have been better.

Once again, this proves that ethical hunting is a main tool of conservation.

By Kevin Cunningham

It is almost a cliché to say that hunting Cape Buffalo is special. For me it began, curiously enough, many years ago hunting whitewing dove in Mexico with Ralf. Ralf was a successful, greying guy who loved the hunting and fishing life, and who was fortunate enough to have safaried in Africa from the time he was twelve years old. After a hot day of shooting doves, he and I would sip icy margaritas and he would reminisce about hunts and the animals he had taken – hissing crocs, trumpeting elephants, roaring lions, hyenas, baboons, leopards, horned plains game of every sort, and Cape buffalo. To my youthful ears it sounded like high adventure and a test of personal courage. Ralf had been everywhere and stalked everything, but he always came back for buff because, he said, they live up to their reputation for exchanging human damage for a poorly placed shot, and for fighting to the end, especially when they knew who killed them!

Fast forward thirty years to a lion-colored grass airstrip in the Save Valley of Zimbabwe. The little Cessna bumped down onto the hard dirt and came to idle in the shade under a towering baobab tree. When the engine shut off, all I could hear was the sound of the wind blowing a dust devil down the runway. A Toyota pickup drove to the plane. The driver got out, a junior professional hunter, introduced himself and me to the trackers, then loaded my gear. We watched the plane lift off over the tree line and turn north. I looked at the red ground and crackling dry landscape of thornbush and tan-barked trees with new green leaves brought on by early November rains. The horizon in every direction seemed 100 miles away. There was no sign of man. A lone silhouette of an elephant lumbered across the far end of the airstrip casting a silent shadow before the setting sun. I was back in big buffalo country, and only the fates knew what would happen over the next ten days.

After zeroing my rifles, we arrived at Sango Conservancy. This is the famed reserve of the Pabst Brewing Company family. It is managed to the highest standards in terms of protecting and preserving wild African animals in their free-range habitat and in a sustainable manner that includes very limited hunting. The hunts they allow are under strict quota and are conducted only with select PHs. The money raised helps to support anti-poaching, wildlife studies, and the feeding and livelihood of the workers and their communities. Those funds represent only a portion of the total personal cost to the owners in their continuing and tireless efforts to preserve 150,000 acres (60,000 hectares) of pristine African habitat and its precious wildlife.

Ingwe Camp, mine for this hunt, is a private camp, so I had the place to myself except for staff and my PH who stayed in a thatched bungalow across the compound.  I was greeted by staff with a tray of iced melon juice and cookies and shown around. Boss Rob, my PH, would be back shortly as he was attending business at headquarters. I stowed my gear and headed to the bar for an anesthetic after the 34-hour trek from Texas to Zim via Doha, Qatar. I settled into a leather chair on the veranda, watching the last light of sunset filter over the veld, sipped my iconic South African drink – a double brandy and Coke – and relaxed in proper bwana fashion.

A truck ground to a halt and a door slammed. In strode my friend and PH Rob Lurie. I had met Rob two years before under unfortunate circumstances. My previous PH,

Phil Smyth, had been killed by an elephant. Rob had stepped in along with other generous PHs to pick up Phil’s booked hunts for the benefit of Phil’s family, and so I had hunted the Senuko camp, about fifty kilometers down valley, with him the following year. We hit it off, and so when he called to offer me a hunt at Sango that another client had cancelled, I jumped at it.

Rob is head of the distinguished Zimbabwe Professional Guides Association. Though I have hunted with wonderful PHs from other parts of Africa I have been impressed with the professionalism that Zimbabwean PHs display as a result of their rigorous training and licensing program. Just ask any learner Zimbabwean PH what they have to go through to get a full license to escort clients into harm’s way. You would sooner sign up for Marine Corps boot camp and a couple of years in green hell than go the distance they go to get their ticket. Like Rob, the PHs I have had the privilege and honor to hunt with, are dedicated to preserving an ancient way of life. I got to share that life for the next ten days.

After a lovely dinner, more than enough Stellenbosch wine and catching up with Rob, I turned off my bedside lamp and sank into crisp sheets under a mosquito net. It was pitch dark. I listened to the trickle of the stream in the gully below and the chirping and calling of the night creatures. I thought of my rifles, going through a mental checklist – Dakota .416 Rigby bolt action with a new Swarovski Z8i 1.7-13×42 red dot scope for old eyes needing lots of light in often shadowy environments. For years my Z6i had served me well, but the improvements of technology over time enticed me into the new optics. They say in Africa, shoot the largest caliber you can shoot well. I chose the .416 Rigby as it is a legendary caliber for tough African dangerous game. I shot this rifle confidently and killed efficiently and humanely.  My other rifle on this hunt was a new, out-of-the box Hill Country Rifles custom .224 Valkyrie with a Z8i scope for smaller game. I had brought thirty rounds of ammo for each. For buffalo I prefer custom loads – 20 soft and 10 solids from Safari Arms with Swift A-Frame bullets – or whatever is next best available in the post-Covid market. Nothing against production ammo, but if I have the cash and order time, I want to know I have the best. For dangerous game, failure is not an option!

The morning knock-knock came at 4.00 along with a pot of coffee. An hour later, Rob and the team were waiting at first light with the truck.

Day one is always a wakeup call. This was real. I was jet-lagged. My shoes were stiff. I was not used to the new sling. I had conveniently forgotten the effect on my arms and shoulders of carrying what is a rather heavy rifle. That first walk of the morning was not like strolling to the shooting bench at home. My muscles were not in shape to follow much younger men all day. No taking a coffee break and chatting with a friend before going to lunch. A sip of water and let’s get on with it! That first day was meant to see how I walked in the bush, how I behaved, how I handled my rifle. By evening I was beat, but hopefully Rob could see that I was getting my muscle memory back, leaving my other life behind and getting mentally into the work at hand.

Over the next few days we bundu-bashed. Rob and I were in the cab while our trackers and game scout were above us on the top rack and bench where they could see what we could not. Around us monolithic grey boulders stacked up into kopjes. We bundled warmly in the early mornings and sweated in the afternoons, heads on constant swivel for sign and animals. There were the occasional close calls with unhappy elephants, appearing and disappearing lions, menacing shadows moving through the trees, and crocs feasting like Jaws on giraffe legs from the one that I had shot for bait. We ambushed a pair of klipspringers, and the trophy ram dropped to the shot from the .224. With that and a well-placed shot from the .416 on that old bull giraffe the day before, I was feeling good on the gun.

Fortunately, Rob said the island was too dangerous to hunt. In it were poachers’ snares that caught and wounded elephants, buffalo, lion and leopard. Bumping into predators while hunting wounded animals in those tight quarters or, even worse, meeting wounded animals themselves, could be considered a life-altering experience. For once I was pleased to be excluded from the git-go!

As we stood on that riverbank looking at Monster Island (my name for it), I looked behind and around us and noticed the trackers doing the same. We were standing in a tunnel of twenty-foot-high reeds and tangled vines, no different from on Monster Island. I was last in line, so I watched our rear, wondering what shooting at close range in that tangle would be like with a scoped rifle.

We crept back out. I began to relax when we got back to the truck until I looked at Rob as he hurriedly started the truck and revved the engine. He was staring hard at a young cow with calf that was barreling down the narrow lane which was to be our exit 40 meters ahead. She came ears flared, trunk held high, and trumpeting. Behind us was another group of clearly nervous head-swinging bulls. I envisioned jumping from the truck at the last second before the inevitable collision, but luckily the cow suddenly backed off for a moment to check on her baby hidden in the bush nearby. Rob wasted no time in scooting past her with spinning tires and throwing up a cloud of dust.  I looked right into her eyes through Rob’s window as we passed.

 I am in no way a professional hunter. I have read Capstick and Boddington and John Taylor and whatever else I could find about African hunting. This time I was hunting my sixth Cape buffalo. I have spent hours looking through binos, hunkered down in grass or behind a termite mound. I have sat around fires talking to PHs and other buffalo lovers about what makes a great trophy. Early on I thought “wide” was the way to go, and then “drop” became the object. I got my “wide” in the Eastern Cape of South Africa and was lucky to have it rank 165 of the many buffalo recorded as of July 2019 in the SCI records. Now, after seven years of chasing them, I only hunt Daggas. Old warriors with fighting scars on their faces and necks, lion claw streaks on their backs, chunks of their hocks torn out by chewing beasts, healed in thick masses. I want to see dropped horns down low to their ears and lots of grey mascara under drooping and wrinkled eyes. I search for a boss that looks like the burl of an ancient oak. I hunt for a “character.”  A helmet of broken horn and one eye would be perfect! Past breeding age, they wander alone or in twos or threes, no longer fighting for herd dominance or breeding rights; they fight to survive another day unprotected except for maybe a loyal mate nearby. I have developed an affinity for them, a kinship that perhaps comes with my advancing age, knowing that there are no hospices in the bush and that the end can come unmercifully slower than from a well-placed bullet. Rob knows what to look for. I trust him when we have stalked two bulls through a searing afternoon only for him to call me off the sticks at the last moment because neither of them is a “proper Dagga.” All I want to hear is a whisper: “He’s a shooter!”

And so around 4.30 in the afternoon on the sixth day of the hunt, I put my boots back on swollen feet, bent down to stretch an aching lower back, and fumbled with my shoe laces with hands and arms stiffened from toting the .416. I was definitely on the old man side of the equation.

A buffalo had attacked some camp staff not far from our compound the night before. The same buff had chased a man up a tree two days ago in the same area just down by the creek. Rob thought that the culprit might still be in the neighborhood, so we were back in the truck. Sure enough, we cut two Daggas’ tracks in the road not a mile from camp. Rob switched off the engine and we rolled to a stop. The tracks were fresh and big.

As I stepped out of the truck, I put a round into my rifle’s chamber and felt my gut tighten.  I took two deep breaths, checked that I was on safety and fell in behind Rob and our lead tracker. What I like is that generally the stalk is a slow affair.  My legs are not what they used to be. Slow is good.  Making as little noise as possible I looked down, watching the heels of Rob’s boots as we angled down a forested hill towards the creek. I tried to step where he stepped and stop when he stopped. My heart picked up rpms as our progress got slower and more deliberate, until it was two or three steps, then stop and wait, a few more steps, stop and wait.

Then we stopped still. Rob looked through his binos, peering around a tree trunk. He slowly turned and smiled at me.

The lead tracker moved silently to a large boulder fifteen meters in front of us and slowly peered over the top. He froze. I could feel everyone’s tension rise. I concentrated on looking at Rob’s back in front of me, slowing my breathing to try to relax. Rob quicky moved forward and I followed close on. We reached the boulder. By hand signals the tracker told Rob that the companion buff had run away, but the older one was just on the other side of our boulder, perhaps twenty meters away and not seeing us because of the rock. However, the animal seemed to know something was afoot and was motionless. To our left at the far end of the rock was a small gully that opened into a hollow about four meters across. If the buff chose to go forward, he would emerge into that hollow to our left. In that case I would have a shot at him broadside from about 15 meters. Rob and I crept to that end of the rock and put up the sticks. Rob looked up to the tracker who by now was crouched about three meters above us on top of the rock, looking straight down at the buff just on the other side. The tracker’s hand fluttered.

“He is coming!” Rob whispered, this time clear urgency in his voice. “Get ready!”

I checked my safety to be sure it was at the half-on position. I gripped the fore end of the Dakota firmly in the V of the sticks and made sure my power was on low setting. Looking through the reticle down into the narrow hollow I could see the spot where I imagined the bull would step out. I waited, but nothing happened. I slowed my breathing again and stared through my scope, trying to blink as little as possible. Another minute passed. Rob gestured to the tracker above who signaled back that the animal was just standing still again, listening, smelling, sensing. Just then the tracker changed his hand, pointing in the opposite direction. The buff had turned around and was now moving back down the alleyway from where he had come. Rob and I moved quickly, resetting the sticks on a level place at the end of the boulder where the buff had first been observed. We were about a meter above ground level, but still partially hidden by rock, looking down at the place the buff where should now come out. I again set up on the sticks and waited. Events after that took on a dreamlike, almost like slow motion, but still quickly.

The buff emerged into a grassy area. I was on the sticks, moving my red dot around deliberately to find his center mass. He was facing us head down, eating little shoots of brilliantly green grass. He was lit up black and gold by the rays of the setting sun still bright over our shoulders. He looked up in our direction then turned slightly to his left in a quartering position. Rob hissed, “Now! Right on the shoulder.”

I shot. The red dot and all around it exploded in my reticle. The buffalo lurched forward instantly and came at us. I jacked another round into the rifle and shot at his hindquarter as he blindly plowed within a few meters of us, passing by our rock. I shot again, this time a raking shot from behind at 12 meters. With that he turned back towards us, coming to a stop at six meters from my rifle muzzle. For the briefest moment he looked up directly at us then turned broadside. At this point my scope was worthless as far as aim, so I looked over it, pulled the rifle in tight to my shoulder and basically shot-gunned my last round into his side just aft of his shoulder. In my peripheral vision I could see Rob’s double at ready in case the buff leapt onto the rock at us, but my last shot had turned him away. He trotted up the hillside near us. At about thirty meters he stopped in the shadow of a massive baobab tree and just stood there, blowing a mist of red with each deep breath. I could hear Rob saying, “Reload.” As I did so, the beast began to sway but his staunch legs would not buckle.

“Again. Shoot again,” Rob said.

This time I took careful aim on the sticks and put the last one just behind the shoulder crease halfway up the chest. He did not even flinch. The great head rose. He looked up at the tree and lay down. Still tossing his horns at his unseen enemy he bellowed once, then again, and all went still.

It is said in Mashonaland that only great chiefs may be buried under a baobab tree. The greater the chief, I suppose, the greater the baobab. When it is my time there will be no baobab. But I will always carry with me the memory of this valiant old chief and his tree, a sad, but good thing.

Ralf would have understood.