By McKennon “Mac” Laas

Certain tribes believe that a person has two births. The first occurs when one is physically born, the second when he is acknowledged as a person, reborn with purpose and direction. His mind and body is altered forever, and he has a clearer picture of his existence. He has been measured and found worthy to be given the name of “Bwana”.

Before his awakening, this Madala (old man) was a hunter. A true sportsman, as well as a conservationist of the land in which his quarry roamed. Revered by his youthful colleagues for his desire to stick to the old ways and, in his later years, his ability to captivate an audience with yarns spun of his exploits. Madala had hung onto every word that his mentors of old had shared, and therefore his pupils, in turn, followed suit. And although the thought of death only lurked in the darker corners of his mind, he knew that someday he would face this fear head on, and perhaps in a way he did not expect.

But as the dry African breeze dried the sweat from his brow, Madala’s apprehension had evaporated as he landedon the Dark Continent. He faced reality, and the change was stirring inside him as the Cruiser bumped and banged across the open savanna. His eyes were becoming sharper as he scanned the countryside for another sighting of game that just days before he had only seen in the books by Ruark and Hemingway that had long ago collected dust upon the shelves of his library. He was becoming keener of his surroundings and of the change that was taking place inside him. He knew nothing would prepare him for the unexpected other than in such a venture; he was allowing himself to be vulnerable and ready to accept the full and complete experience of what was to come.

rounded a bend, the drum of the engine was muffled by the thunder of hooves of countless buffalo retreating from their nightly feast in the tribal fields dotting the Chifunda concession. Madala’s was awestruck at the sight of hundreds of buffalo seemingly at arm’s length. They were heard and felt as they melted in and out of sight through the dust veil they created. The trail was easy to follow but the stalk was not fruitful. The following days were full of many stalks upon herds of various sizes until finally his team found almost hidden tracks in an obscure corner of the concession. They were the magnificently large, the square tracks of several Dagga Boys.

 Madala’s anticipation increased. His desire to pit his skills against the mighty buffalo were secondary to those of taking a true Dagga Boy – was this his opportunity? Would he get his chance to succeed? Could he control himself to make the ethical shot?

The tracks were fresh and the trail was followed carefully – the team knew what they were pursuing. The hunters stalked through ancient mopane scrub which opened to scattered grassy plains, only to be swallowed again by

areas of elephant-abused saplings. The heat was intense. Any hint of a breeze would be welcome to cool their bodies and help cover the sound of any noise from footsteps crunching on the crisp fallen leaves littering the ground in the Zambian dry season.

Dead stop. Dead silence. Barend Dorfling and Thomas Wilken, Madala’s dynamic duo of professional hunters, silently commanded their party to halt. Keen eyes had caught movement of a flapping ear and the horizontal outline of some obscure dark shape. At an uncomfortable distance, the black masses revealed themselves as the Dagga Boys that Madala had set off to pursue.

The professional hunters’ team silently observed each ancient warrior as they peered through the dusty lenses of their binos. There he was – the Dagga Boy of any hunter’s dream.  He lay motionless, grey and hairless, on the edge of the herd. The occasional flapping of his tattered ears to flick away the harassment of mopane bees was the only indication that this “madala” had lived long. He was relaxed, trusting the others to be on the alert. Hunter Madala was content to enjoy the sight until suddenly the spell was broken – Barend, with a little smile, passed down the big bore. He knew it was Madala’s time.

Madala imagined the scene as warfare of old. The hunters left the safety of the broken cover, one painstakingly cautious step after another, as they inched toward the group. With the stealth of Ninjas they silently they closed the distance. Sticks were placed and the rifle mounted. Madala’s adversary was unaware. The initial shot broke the silence, and follow-up shots ensured that the old warrior was down, while his cohorts were diverted by the barrage of Thomas’s warning shots.

Madala’s conflict was over. He caressed the worn, glass-smooth boss, such a boss that was possessed only by the oldest of old buffalo. Quietly he relived every part of the event. He was overcome with a deep emotion he had never experienced since the moment he had watched his own children being brought into the world. His rite of passage was done, his change complete. Madala himself had finally been reborn.

He had become “Bwana”.

By Thierry Labat

Having previously and successfully hunted with Will Parks for a Lord Derby a few years earlier, we agreed that on this our fourteenth hunt together, we would look at as many eland as possible for at least the first week and then come the second week we would settle for something big, mature, and with a certain shape of horns.

Of course it is important to note that there are very few areas where this is possible to do, and Faro Lobeke’s block 16 is one of those areas. It is the largest, if not one of the largest, area in the northern savanna region of Cameroon, spanning some 400 000 acres. It is an extremely well looked after area with serious anti-poaching teams on the ground backed up by an aircraft above, and a low off-take of animals for the size of the area. The camp is situated on the banks of the Faro River, with a superior road network in a block which is loaded with game – and in my opinion unquestionably makes this the premier hunting destination in Cameroon. Of course, the unfortunate thing for most people is that hunting here comes at a premium price which, after all said and done, is well worth of the product. 

The very first morning of the safari we headed south, and about 40 minutes later we cut some eland tracks across the road. Assessing freshness of tracks and wind direction, we decided to follow. Prepared for a long day ahead, we filled our camel backs with water, geared up and proceeded to start tracking. Surprisingly, only 15 minutes in I spotted some movement up ahead, and after picking up my 10×42 Swarovskis I noticed the unmistakable markings and colors of, in my opinion, the most beautiful antelope in the world. The wind was perfect and blew steadily in our favor.

Will and I slowly and carefully moved forward towards the eland, only then to notice that they were in fact moving in our direction. We settled down behind some cover and waited, letting them come to us. Eland have this habit of meandering randomly and can be one of the trickiest of animals to track, often doubling back on their own tracks and changing directions for no apparent reason. It was a small group consisting of what clearly was a female on heat, two big mature bulls, two immature bulls and a couple of other females and young. What followed was possibly the best hour of Lord Derby Eland hunting one could possibly wish for.

The female on heat walked to within about 50 yards of us, followed by an old, big-bodied bull with a massive neck and short horns, who was clearly interested in her, and not too far behind them another beautiful bull with a beautiful

By Ken Moody

It had been a hard hunt to this point. Five days into a ten-day safari, and still not a quality bull spotted. Richard, our client, was cheerful as always, never doubting that we would persevere to the end, but those of us in the know were becoming a bit anxious. Day in and day out we had spotted, tracked, crawled, snuck into, and engaged dozens of buffalo bulls within the large herds we were hunting. Still, no dice. Everything so far had been soft-bossed and too young to consider. Where are the big boys, I pondered as we discounted another group of six bulls not up to snuff. Returning to camp that evening, I decided that we would make a new plan and split our resources to cover more ground and find more buffalo. 

The following day I left camp at 4:30 a.m. determined to find a shootable bull, and headed south to check out the larger waterholes and other areas known for buffalo, while Richard and our PH Jannie would scout in the denseness of the northern parts of the property. I would radio if I spotted anything, and if not, we would meet back at camp for lunch and discuss an afternoon plan. A fruitless morning ensued with me scouring every haunt and hiding place I knew of, but my hours of searching were a bust.

After returning to camp around noon, we decided to continue in the areas we had hunted that morning.  The property was huge with a few hundred buffalo, but they had to drink, and they had to feed.  We would make contact with a big boy if we were persistent. After lunch we were back at it, driving, checking for tracks, and climbing little rocky hills, glassing for buffalo, a familiar routine.

With me that afternoon were my daughter and son-in-law riding in the back of the Toyota, hoping to capture photos of game. My daughter, a professional photographer, was fully equipped with her long-range-lens Canon which could provide some nice marketing material if I could find good subjects. About half an hour before dark, I decided to check an old, dirt airfield that was close to camp. It was long, and open terrain surrounded it. We had often spotted herds of buffalo feeding adjacent to the field at dusk, and if I could find them there now, we’d have a good place to start the hunt the following day.

I drove to airfield road, searching the surrounding plains for any sign of movement. A quiet rap on the roof of my bakkie made me stop as I entered the airfield. My daughter was pointing across the field to an open area. Her elevated vantage point had allowed her to spot what was impossible for me to see: Buffalo!

I quietly exited the truck and climbed into the back where I could also see a black river of a buffalo herd coursing through the bush, feeding as they snaked their way towards a large waterhole three kilometers away. A rough estimate put the herd at around 100, and I could see, in the waning light of the day, several bulls. Though we prefer to go after lone Dagga Boys or small groups of bachelors, the large herds could also hold superb bulls. The obvious problem was getting to them, with the many eyes and ears of the herd giving an early warning of possible danger.

I hopped off the truck and, leaving my companions to take photos, moved cautiously across the airfield and began to glass the buffalo as they moved. As any experienced buffalo hunter will tell you, dusk is the best time to approach buffalo as it’s the only time of the day when they seem to get ‘stupid’ and pay much less attention to the things that they should.

I stalked to within 150 meters of the line of buffalo and looked for a candidate. I saw about a dozen bulls and identified at least two that appeared to be hard-bossed but, at that distance and with the lack of light, I was best-guessing, and as the light faded to near darkness, I returned to the truck to head back to camp. Little did I know that the superb optics of my daughter’s camera and the vantage point from which she was shooting would reveal a buffalo that I could not see from where I had been glassing – a real buffalo! A once-in-a-lifetime beast that would make even the most seasoned buffalo hunter sit up and take notice!

Back in camp, Jannie and Richard told of finding spoor and tracking a group of buffalo, but were stymied by fickle wind and alert noses.  I told them of our experience we had just had less than an hour before, and after my daughter powered up her laptop and began to download the photos, we all sat around the fire, sipping good bourbon, and waited for the results.  In about fifteen minutes, I got the downloaded pictures and after a bit of scrolling, I stopped and stared at the image appearing on the screen.

There it was. A photo of a tremendous Cape buffalo bull, with a hard-bossed

set of horns about 48” tip to tip. We had previously shot a few 45” bulls and one superb 44-incher a few months before on other safaris, but this one was bigger. I called Jannie over and we stared at the picture. The only problem now was a plan. Finding that specific bull in such a large herd would be problematic, and then actually getting to him would be another feat.  Taking this buffalo would require a lot of luck.

We discussed a plan for the next day, and given that the big bull was traveling with a herd of around 100, I thought the best option would be for Jannie and Richard to continue with the spoor of the small bachelor herd they’d found the day before, while I went out to try to find the big herd. The odds of stalking into such a large herd and bagging that bull were slim. The only hope was to find the bull either in front or along the fringes of the herd so that we could stalk from the flanks or ambush from the front. Jannie agreed. There were good bulls among those bachelors and Richard also liked his odds much better with them.

We were off before daylight. I returned to the airfield and followed it to the end, walking out into the bush east of the field and going in the direction the buffalo would have likely crossed if they were heading towards the large, natural water pan a few kilometers away. There, I found the tracks of the herd that had crossed a dry riverbed and turned west towards the water. Returning to my bakkie, I drove to the waterhole and found where they had entered the area through a gap in the bush that led out to the water. The entire perimeter of the little lake was saturated with buffalo spoor and, unfortunately, it appeared that it was here the herd had split up and broken down into smaller groups as they finished drinking and disappeared into the bush.  The big bull could be anywhere now.

I thought about what to do next. I knew that the herd had likely originated the night before from an extremely thick, inhospitable area we called ‘The Chad’ and that many would likely move back into it during the day. It was a huge block of bush that the buffalo loved as it gave them great security during the bedding times of midday. This bull was fully mature and hadn’t grown to his size by accident. He would likely be one of the beasts that would seek out the Chad for rest. I started the truck with hope and a plan.

I drove to the northern end of the airfield, and while I was searching for tracks to indicate that some buffalo had headed back towards the safety of Chad, I caught a glimpse of an approaching buffalo. As I crouched behind a small clump of grass, the young bull stepped out into the open and then back into the bush, heading away from me. With my binos I could see that there was another bull with him but couldn’t determine anything more than that.  Could this be the big bull?

I crawled back to my hidden truck and tried repeatedly to reach Jannie or his tracker on the radio. After minutes of calling, the base station at camp picked up my call and tried to relay my message: “Buffalo spotted, come to airfield.” Jannie’s tracker responded, and in about half an hour the group arrived, a cloud of dust in their wake. I told Jannie and Richard of the situation and said that I could only verify that two buffalo bulls were slowly moving from the fringes of the airfield east of our position, staying in the bush along the side of the dirt road that ran perpendicular to the field.

Jannie got his team organized and, with his tracker in the front, led Richard slowly down the bush line, glassing the edges as he went. In less than a minute a young bull appeared from the bush and walked out into the open. Shortly, another bull emerged from the thicket, it, too, a youngster. Jannie and team froze and crouched behind some high grass. I stayed back about 50 meters, not wanting to add to the noise and scent of those in front of me. Suddenly, the two bulls moved back into the bush and disappeared. Not spooked – they had just moved into cover.

I watched as Jannie and the group moved further down towards the area where the bulls had been, and as they were moving, the huge bull from the night before appeared, and walked directly out in front of them. It then crossed the dirt road, and vanished into the bush on the far side. No hesitation at all in his gait, just straight across and gone. A nervous pit began to grow inside my gut. Had we just blown our chance at this magnificent buffalo? Jannie and Richard lay prone in the grass while I held my breath and hoped. Moments passed and then, as if summoned by the gods of luck, the big bull reappeared and crossed back towards the two youngsters. When he reached the perfect angle for a shot, Jannie got Richard into position. He grunted.

BOOM! Richard’s rifle barked.

Relief washed over me as I realized the bull was ours. 

Written by Ricardo Leone

Our 2019 safari had a vastly different feel for me – it was my first since I had officially retired from fulltime employment. I had worked for 38 years straight, and our first day in Zambia was just two months after I retired, and being back in Zambia was just what the doctor ordered and really helped me put my employed life behind me. I also stopped shaving – a retirement statement of sorts – but by the end of the trip I knew the rabbinical look was not for me!

This was our third trip to the Lower Lupande in the Luangwa Valley and our fifth safari with Peter Chipman and Kwalata Safaris – I felt as if I were going to my second home, albeit in a different room in the house. This year, we stayed at the main camp on Bwana Peter’s concession, closer to the airport and equidistant between the primary hunting areas.

Mac was back with us – always a special treat for me to be on safari with my youngest son. This year I was the one who was carefree and chatty, and Mac was the overworked stiff who passed out every night before his head hit the pillow – so funny how one day you become your father and the next your son becomes you – a reminder that life is short and must be lived!

The only reservation I had coming into this trip was my bum foot. Two months previously I was walking in a boot and on meds for the pain. My condition is a permanent one – it is a matter correct footwear and pain management. At the time I arrived in Zambia I was out of the boot, though my mobility was limited, and the pain was constant. Bwana Peter must have had a premonition as he had chosen as a PH, Abie du Plooy, whose mobility was more restricted than mine – together we were quite the pair. The Land Cruiser would have to be on fire for us to want to get out of it to hunt! But of course we did get out for our stalks.

Abie du Plooy was one of those rare and special people. There are few Abies left on this Earth – he was a real throwback to an early period of African safari hunting. He knew all the legends of the craft, and he had seen and done it all. His mind was still sharp, but his body showed the wear. His language was unfiltered which, at times, reminded me of my early days on the New York trading floor. He also was color blind in the way he approached people. While he treated people according to their functional safari role (operator, PH, client, Jr PH, tracker, scout, camp staff, etc.), he treated everyone the same – as people. Perhaps the junior PH, Kevin might reject this statement, but he was a trainee and devoid of rights. The stories Abie shared with his trackers and the laughs they all had together were gut-bustingly funny and everyone laughed together. Abie was white; his second wife was black, and they had a daughter together along with many other children from their previous marriages and many adoptions. Abie would talk to his wife and young daughter almost daily. We learned much about his family on the trip. So, while his language was rough, and his exterior worn – he was a kind man who seemed to love all people. Abie was good to Mac – more of a teacher than a PH. Mac and I are richer for the experience of hunting with Abie du Plooy. About a year after returning from Zambia, we got word that Abie had passed away. Mac and I were deeply saddened – yet we felt lucky to have known him.

The author (L) with Abie du Plooy – he will be missed by many.

Day 7 of our safari was one of exploration. We set out to the far end of the concession to look for bushbuck for Mac and to check out the Luangwa for crocs – I was open-minded to taking another croc if we could find a monster- 14-footer or better. We travelled down the familiar main road: we passed “Ellie Alley”, passed the school, passed the Scout Training Camp all the way to the border of Kwalata’s concession. Bwana had warned us that an illegal outfitter had set up on the outskirts of our concession and was hosting naturalist safaris. How crazy was this, on a hunting concession? We were hunting where there were birdwatchers! Bwana was wrangling with him and the local authorities; however, at the time Bwana told us that he did not mind if we hunted where the rogue outfitter had set up camp, but clearly to be careful. (A reminder that hunting with a reputable outfitter is paramount.)

We took a right off the main road to work the brush for bushbuck and make our way down towards the river. Then an open expanse of land showed many puku and waterbuck feeding in the grass. We had already taken one puku on this trip and Mac was not interested in another unless we saw a seriously big one. Across the grass, we could see a Land Cruiser with the nature-lovers were glassing something in the bush near their makeshift camp. They could have been in danger if we had decided to take aim at one of the pukus, and Abie sent one of the trackers to speak to the naturalists and ask what they were doing on the hunting concession. Our Land Cruiser was still in the brush on a small road and out of their sight. While we were waiting for our tracker to return, several of us got off the Land Cruiser for a “bathroom break” and then saw a small group of elephants ahead in the road. Abie was closest to them and started to yell and wave his arms to ward them off. This was some sight, as Abie was relieving himself, not bothered by the elephants. Priorities!

Meantime, the naturalists’ Land Cruiser drove off, our tracker returned, and we continued towards the river. A couple of hundred yards further we saw two local villagers walking our way signaling to us, and we drove to meet them. They told our trackers that there was a hyena ahead of us stuck in the mud – they had tried to help it, but could not. They pointed where to go, and we drove on. Sure enough, we found the hyena that was not only stuck, but looked near death from exhaustion. All four legs were buried in the mud, and the mud was drying in the hot sun, effectively condemning it to a cruel death. Abie and the trackers discussed how to approach it. I must confess I was thinking to myself that Mother Nature does things for a reason. I was skeptical as to how they were going to get close enough without putting themselves in harm’s way – we all know the power of a hyena’s jaws, exhausted or not.

Abie and the trackers seemed unperturbed by the potential danger – instead, they took a rope from the back of the Land Cruiser and approached the bank of the drying stream where the hyena was stuck. The stream ran across the large open area draining into the river, though at this time of year most of the stream was now small pools of water, mud, or dried mud to be more accurate. From the bank of the stream, the guide threw a thick, synthetic rope onto the hyena which instantly bit into it and started gnawing it. Before the guide could pull on the rope, the hyena had severed the rope in two.

 Ok – new plan. This time the guide threw the rope onto the hyena and immediately started to pull the rope. As the hyena bit on the rope there was immediate tension on it, and as the guide started to pull, the hyena slowly started to dislodge from the mud. I must admit, I was shocked to see how the plan was working. Then I started to worry again. What if the guide was successful and hyena came after him? Murphy’s Law ensued. The freed hyena, instead of chasing toward the guide as I thought, turned back towards where he had been stuck, and found himself trapped in the mud again. Not discouraged, the trackers threw the rope again to the hyena, this time pulling it towards dried mud and, as planned, it found solid ground and walked up the far bank of the stream onto the open grassy area and started to walk away from the stream. It was walking towards the bush where the birdwatchers were glassing! And at that point neither the hyena nor we knew what was lying in the brush – we found out later that a lion had been there, though we do not know if the hyena encountered it or not.

Look how close the guide’s hand is to the hyena’s mouth!

The hyena got with the program and allowed the guide to pull him out.

Free at last! The hyena was truly exhausted and did not know it was walking towards potential danger – a lion further on in the grass.

After we left the hyena, Abie wanted to take a drive along the river to drive by the illegal outfitter’s makeshift camp. He just wanted to remind him he was on a hunting concession. Abie also wanted them to see us – Abie loved to stir the pot. We said it would be fun to be a fly on the wall and hear the dinner conversation at that camp that night – whose concession, was it after all?

For Mac and me, saving the hyena was a rewarding experience – to be clear, we were just spectators and admittedly, I was initially the doubter. One should never underestimate your PH and trackers. They are resourceful and know how to problem solve. Abie Du Plooy was both experienced and knew it was his duty to save an animal’s life. One cannot forget that hunting safari operators are conservationists first and foremost. Last, and most profoundly – while the hyena was not doomed to die in the mud that morning, it left us and was heading towards a resting lion concealed in the brush. Life in the bush is harsh, and death is never far away.

Abie – we wanted to thank you again for a memorable safari – Mac and I are better people and better hunters for knowing you. May you rest in peace.

Written by Darby Wright

We had booked another full bag safari for 2021 with Simon and Kate Rodger’s Safaris de Moçambique. This concession borders Lake Cahora Bassa in Mozambique. My 27-year-old daughter would be the shooter, and her PH would be Brian Ellement, son of the well-known elephant hunter Mark Ellement from Zimbabwe. My son and I had hunted elephant with Mark about 20 years previously on a very successful hunt – we took a 58 lb tusker. We had met Brian and his sister during that hunt when they were about 10 years old, and now Brian was pushing 30! Mark has since passed on and is deeply missed.

We started off driving relentlessly searching for fresh buff tracks. After countless miles of driving and following buffs on foot, we were looking for a big, hard-bossed bull. Day after day we followed tracks until we made contact with herds of Dagga Boy groups. We would carefully maneuver, keeping the wind in our faces, crawling, sneaking, and trying to stay out of sight. KK had borrowed a .375 H&H and I had a .416 Rigby for backup.

Darby Wright with .375 H&H that Kayleigh Wright used on safari, .416 Remington used by Darby Wright for backup & .500 Jeffries used by PH Brian Ellement

Finally, after looking over quite a few buffs, Brian whispered that there was a very nice bull in a group. We kept shifting constantly, trying to get into position for a clear shot. The buffs were on the move, feeding into the wind with heavy brush all around them. I stayed back a few yards as KK and Brian moved into position. I saw the sticks come up and it seemed like forever before the shot went off. I was trying to video with my phone camera, and at the shot I jerked the phone, not getting any of the action on video. KK said the shot felt good and that she had been aiming low on the shoulder. Soon we heard the death bellow coming from about 150 yards away. The trackers started smiling and laughing and everyone was elated! We found this magnificent bull and he was a beauty! That night there would be a ‘Dindine’ (local term for a party) which included a full-blown celebration with sundowners, hors d’oeuvres and buff-tail soup.

We had gotten word that an agitated bull hippo had been harrassing fisherman, and one man had been severely injured while tending his nets. We loaded our gear into the Land Cruiser and headed out early the next day across the million-acre concession to investigate the situation. PHs are often responsible for eliminating problem animals, and upon our arrival several local fisherman ran up to our truck and in their native tongue told our trackers what had happened. The injured fisherman had been taken to a clinic but they weren’t sure he was going to make it. Those tusks are capable of causing horrendous injuries. We were never able to locate this aggressive hippo, so we decided to hunt the huge vegetation-choked lagoon for a trophy hippo.

Sunset at Main Camp

After much searching we were able to find two hippo bulls completely out of the water sunning on a small island. However, they saw us and entered the water, heads bobbing up and down. We were all sitting on the ground glassing, and Brian set up the short sticks and told KK which one to shoot when comfortable. The .375 barked. “Great shot!” said Brian. He had seen the 110 yard shot connect through his binos. A search party was sent out in a dugout canoe to tow in the hippo once it floated, and when near the shore, we used the Land Cruiser to pull the 6,000 lb beast from the water. All the meat was given to the fishing village, and the excited villagers were thankful for fresh protein.

KK had leopard on license, so we set out to shoot several impala rams for bait. At 350 dollars each, that’s some expensive cat food! We hung five baits in likely-looking areas and checked them every day. One bait site was within a mile of camp, and bait number three was heavily fed on with big paw prints around it. We needed a fresh impala bait. A blind was built, and KK and Brian entered it about 4:00 p.m. while I waited in camp.

At 8:30 the driver came to tell me he was sure they had got the leopard, so we headed straight to the blind. Brian and the trackers searched with flashlights. KK and I waied in the blind. Suddenly, “KK come see your leopard,” shouted Brian. WOW! Now everyone was fired up. This had been a fantastic leopard hunt! We had another ‘Dindine’, a cat celebration like none other.

Meantime, a buff ribcage, hide and hooves, a bunch of mummified impala carcasses from leftover recycled leopard baits, and a horrendously rank hippo leg left over from a previous lion safari, were all transformed into croc baits. It took a few days of wiring and chaining these baits in prime spots. The hippo leg was taken to a peninsula, and when we snuck in the following day to check for crocs, some dinosaur had broken the thick wiring and the chain which held the hippo leg! It was a windy day, so we decided to use our boat to search for a big croc.

We glassed a lot of shorelines and coves. At one point Brian got out of the boat and walked across a peninsula to take a look at the other side. He came running back to the boat, waving for us to grab the gun and sticks and make it quick! KK and Brian led, then they began belly-crawling for a closer shot. I could see the monster croc lying half in and half out of the water, quartering to the right. He was enormous with a huge head and wide body. Brian had KK on the short sticks and it didn’t take long for the .375 to go off. BOOM! The bullet entered forwards into the back of the skull, and after several insurance shots taken for good measure, it was over.

This was a huge old croc. The dindine celebration would last well into the night. Drinks and cold beers would be flowing! This Second Generation hunt was an especially memorable safari – hunting with Mark Ellement’s son Brian, and Kayleigh.

Those memories will last forever.