By Ken Bailey

Kudu were not on my “want” list. But they invariably become part of conversation whenever you’re in kudu country, for these regal spiral-horned antelope have a way of capturing the imagination like few others. And so it was, that Aru Game Lodge’s PH Stephan Joubert and I talked kudu as we sat high on a hill glassing the vast bushveld below, while searching the thorn bush for eland!

The truth is that I had no intention of shooting a kudu. Having taken a respectable bull on a hunt years earlier in South Africa, on this Namibian hunt I was focused on the kudu’s big brother, the eland. (Also high on my list were springbok, steenbok and caracal – the ubiquitous lynx-like cat found across much of Africa, although given how few caracals I’ve seen over several safaris, I am not convinced that they’re as widely distributed as the range maps suggest.)

The icons of hunting writing that popularized kudu wrote about their experiences in East Africa, largely in what is now Tanzania. Perhaps it was Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa that jump-started the kudu mystique, or maybe it was Jack O’Connor’s assertion that the kudu was the Dark Continent’s top trophy, and his coining of the term “the grey ghost” that inspired all those who followed in his footsteps. At that time, kudu were decidedly uncommon, undoubtedly contributing to their reputation as a trophy in high demand. Today, however, kudu are thriving, particularly in South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe.

From our hilltop vista, Stephan and I carefully and methodically identified a great diversity and abundance of game. A mixed herd of zebra and blue wildebeest, two separate groups of gemsbok, clusters of red hartebeest, numerous springbok and a sprinkling of warthogs, ostriches, waterbuck and steenbok. But – no eland. So, we settled back more firmly against the rocks and began to sweep the landscape all over again.

Ten minutes later, in the typically understated manner of all African PHs, Stephan leaned over and said, casually, “There’s a pretty decent kudu bull down there. He only has a horn and a half, but the intact side looks pretty good. Maybe 55 inches. Are you interested?”

Decision time. I’d arrived with little interest in taking a kudu, but 55-inch bulls don’t grow on trees, especially in this part of Namibia where kudu, especially the bulls, had been hit hard by an epizootic outbreak of rabies, and the population was only then beginning to rebound. However, this was a one-horned kudu, irrespective of the length. Not generally a trophy animal.

“Let me give it some thought,” and we both settled back to continue glassing.

The whole notion of what constitutes a trophy has been undergoing a metamorphosis in recent years. In an effort to ensure that hunters are targeting only the oldest animals as a means to help ensure the health and sustainability of populations, there have been numerous biological and social initiatives aimed at educating hunters and the professional hunting community alike. In 2006, sponsored in part by Conservation Force and the Dallas Safari Club, a paper on ageing lions was released describing how various traits, including facial pigmentation, could be used to select older, post-breeding animals. A few years ago, and championed by noted veterinarian, author and PH Kevin Robertson, the importance of selecting past-their-prime Cape buffalo bulls was reinforced. Hunters were encouraged to choose the oldest and ugliest bulls. Today, what should count is age, not size.

I considered this as I continued to scan the Namibian veld, returning repeatedly to scrutinize the lone kudu bull browsing in the camel thorn. He was alone, not a herd bull, as one might expect of a breeding-aged animal. Given the length of his one intact horn, he had some years on his hooves. He definitely appeared old.

I pondered my own hunting ethics together with where the hunting community is headed in defining trophy quality.

“Let’s do it.” Without another word the two of us, along with our two trackers and Stephan’s constant companion, a friendly Rhodesian Ridgeback, made our way down the little mountain.

Height is a strategic advantage in pinpointing game. By the time we’d made it down and onto the flat veld, we found our perspective had disappeared with the altitude. We were now staring at a sea of thorn bush and although we’d identified a landmark or two, it was difficult to know exactly where the bull had wandered out of our sight.

Stephan sent one of the trackers up a fortuitously positioned windmill to see if he could spot the bull. Five minutes after scaling the rickety structure the tracker signaled that he’d spied our kudu. After scrambling down he excitedly relayed its location – only a few hundred yards distant among the scrub. A quick confab between the three of us to discuss tactics, and we were on the hunt.

From the direction we knew the bull to be heading, Stephan guessed that it was feeding towards a watering hole, so we set out on a trajectory that would intercept the bull along his path. Keeping the wind in our faces, we hunched over and began quickly duck-walking, always wary of the needle-sharp spines of the camel thorn and black thorn trees along the path. Eventually Stephan and the trackers got right down into a catcher’s-stance waddle. Too many years of basketball has left me with knees that have all the flexibility of rebar, so I was on my hands and knees, scurrying along behind as best as I could.

A hand raised is the universal sign that game has been spotted – at Stephan’s signal we all froze. Staring intently to where he pointed, I eventually made out the bull moving slowly through the dense cover, feeding as he went. He was headed toward a clearing, and I got into position to be ready for when he stepped out.

Breaking into the open, the bull did as he was hard-wired to do – stopping to check that the coast was clear. That hesitation was all I needed, and at the shot he was down in his tracks.

It’s always a bittersweet moment when you first approach a downed animal, and that feeling was only amplified when we realized what an ancient warrior this kudu truly was. In many places his hair was abnormally thin or worn away, and he had obvious cataracts in both eyes. His “good” horn was broken, battered and splintered, and stretched the tape to just shy of 54 inches. The wear on the stub side made it obvious he’d been handicapped for quite some time, likely from having performed double duty, given that the other horn was little more than an 18-inch remnant.

Stephan estimated the bull to be 13 years old, well past his prime and considerably older than the eight- and nine-year-old bulls that are typically taken. With his poor overall health and impairments, it was unlikely he’d have lived another season – more probably destined to become dinner for one of the local leopards.

Despite folks having asked several times why I’d willingly shoot a kudu with only one horn, when I look back on this hunt, it’s without a smidgen of hunter’s remorse. In fact, it is just the opposite. Among the many animals I’ve been fortunate to take over the years, this bull is among those I’m most proud of.

Rather than only evaluating physical attributes, age should be an important consideration when defining what constitutes a trophy. My one-horned kudu more than meets trophy standards by any measurement.

The normal, routine patterns of daily life ended as we left Florida en route to Maun, to meet PH Clive Lennox for a 10-day elephant hunt on Kgori Safaris’ Kwatale NG 43 concession.

All my life I’d dreamed of a classic African elephant hunt. Now, the time had finally come. I’d spent several months convincing my wife, Denise, that she needed to experience the adventure with me, and she finally consented and became our photo- and videographer.

Jim van Rensburg and the Kgori Safaris’ staff brought a wonderfully elegant style and friendly attitude to their camp, which we shared with Texas hunter Ronnie Rod, who kept us laughing from daylight to dark.

On Day One, we headed with Clive to our base camp, Tuskers, seeing giraffe, impala, kudu, eland, reedbuck, steenbok and zebra along the way. Elephant and their spoor were everywhere. At one waterhole a teenage bull was feeling his oats and ran after our truck. Along the way, Denise videotaped some good footage of different groups of elephant. As we were returning to camp we spotted a nice mature bull, but on closer inspection he had a broken tusk.

After a long day in the bush we arrived at camp, tired and hungry. After snacks around the fire, a four-course meal in the dining room, bed was a welcome sight for our tired bodies.

Day Two had the threat of an incoming front of rain. Clive had us on the trail by 6.30 a.m. and we visited one waterhole that had some decent tracks. Clive took note and then went to check as many areas as he could before the rain came. The morning rain was light, so it didn’t hurt our tracking.

After lunch under a shade tree and a 45-minute siesta, we started back on the trail at 3.00 p.m., looking for the track of the big bull. What a life!

About an hour later, we found a waterhole with steaming dung. Denise decided to stay on the truck working with the video, while Clive, the trackers, and I followed the hot trail. Once out of sight of the truck, the tracker climbed a tree for a better view of the situation. All of this took about 10 minutes. Meanwhile, the three bulls that we were tracking had circled back to the waterhole where Denise was sitting! She became more anxious by the moment as they advanced towards the truck. Quickly she reviewed her options: “Should l call for Clive and Roger”… “No, that might bring the elephants closer.” Just before she called out, she saw us reappear. We moved the truck, and she got some great footage of the elephants.

As we traveled, Laroto, the tracker spotted a group of elephant some distance away. Clive stopped the vehicle and sent the trackers to inspect the group. They returned wearing big smiles – there was a group of four bulls, and at least one was a good trophy

Now we were all starting to feel the excitement and anticipation. Quickly, we loaded our rifles (and cameras) and, with the wind in our faces, we took the track. After closing the gap, we checked the wind, then began glassing the four bulls feeding together. “Let’s get a bit closer,” said Clive.

Rodger convinced Denise to come along as the safari photographer and videographer and she was able to get some good photos and footage of different groups of elephants.

Now we were all in stealth mode – no spoken words and stepping only in each other’s tracks. After careful inspection, Clive whispered: “There’s the bull you want.” My mind was racing. Clive worked us into a better position. This bull was a giant! Twelve feet tall and weighing six tons.

I feel as though we’re in Jurassic Park and a dinosaur is bearing down on us. Time is slowing down. I can feel my heart pounding in my ears. I feel each breath. I find myself on the shooting sticks. Clive says: “Take him.” He has turned to face us and the wind swirls. He lifts his head to look at us as the trigger releases. He crumbles. Clive and I put in shots for assurance.

What a trophy! Congratulations continue all the way to camp.

Hunting elephant in Botswana is a special experience. During the day one hears a symphony of African birds and, at night, the call of lion. Experiencing life in the bush has a special intrinsic value that, unfortunately, words cannot describe.

For the past 45 minutes I’d crouched immobile behind a low thornbush on the edge of a 20–acre grass–covered meadow, watching five rhinos graze. Moving their enormous heads from side to side, they cut a swath through the field, ingesting an impressive amount of green groceries.

A slight wind was blowing in our direction; the quarry was completely unaware of our presence. When first spotted, they were approximately 70 yards off and had come no closer during their recent machinations. In the last three minutes, this situation changed. Two of the rhino, one with the largest horn, grazed in our direction – moving from my left to right. The smaller one came to within 20 yards of us, while the larger was approximately 50 yards away.

For reasons known only to them, both rhino suddenly stopped – not agitated, just frozen. The larger rhino was partially obscured by the closer. I held the dart gun on ‘ready.’ Carl had set the pressure for a distance of approximately 50 yards. Barry’s hands tightened on his .470 Krieghoff Classic double rifle – just in case! Lady Luck smiled. After two to three minutes (it seemed a lot longer) the larger rhino walked forward, giving me an unobstructed view.

A moment of truth had arrived. I sighted the red dot on its right shoulder and squeezed the trigger. Following the whooshing sound as the dart flew, I could see the red tip impaled on the rhino’s shoulder. Startled by the sound, both rhino charged forward full speed – luckily, not in our direction. They were joined by their companions and rapidly ran downhill. I breathed a sigh of relief and felt elated. Perhaps my final quest was over.

Six months prior this event, I had little interest in hunting a southern white rhinoceros. On two previous occasions I’d seen them in the wild and neither encounter had whetted my appetite to hunt these apparently docile behemoths. However, last fall I shot a very large male leopard in Namibia, and now had four of the African Big Five, all of record–book quality. I needed only a rhinoceros to complete SCI’s African Big Five Grand Slam.

The major impediment to my shooting a rhinoceros was the kill fee – at least $50,000… Out of the question. On the other hand, I could afford the substantially less cost of darting one of these ‘Pleistocene holdovers.’ Frank Cole of Cabela’s Outdoor Adventures arranged for me to hunt with Barry Burchell of Frontier Safaris. The hunt was to include darting a rhino, hunting caracal with Barry’s hounds, and introducing my daughter, Ruth Ann, to big–game hunting.

Accordingly, we arrived in Port Elizabeth in April after the obligatory 24–hour air travel. The facilities of the game ranch were very impressive. Approximately 50 miles inland from the Eastern Cape, the spectacular hilly terrain was sparsely covered with small bushes and short trees. The weather, early winter, was dry and the temperature ideal.

The first day, while getting over the jet lag, Ruth Ann practised shooting Barry’s Ruger Model 77 .270 calibre rifle. That afternoon she killed her first big–game trophy – a very impressive Cape kudu bull.

The next morning, we drove 30 miles to the Lalibela Game Reserve through heavy fog and met PH Carl van Zyl, our primary guide. The veterinarian, a delightful individual, showed me the ins and outs of using his dart gun. This gun had a long, thin barrel and a red–dot sight. The maximum range was 50 yards. He made it very clear that, due to the parabolic trajectory of the dart, the precise distance to the quarry must to be known. (If the rhino was 20 yards away and the gun was set at 50 yards, the dart would go over its back. Conversely, if the rhino was 50 yards away and the gun was set at 20 yards, the dart would hit the dirt before reaching the rhino.) I practised several times, and managed to hit a small cardboard box.

We piled into a Land Cruiser and went hunting for rhino, first encountering a female rhino with a young calf. She didn’t seem too perturbed at our presence, but it was obvious she expected us to move on – which we did. After about an hour, we found five grown rhinos in a grassy meadow and crawled slowly to the edge. One rhino had a trophy–quality large horn. Frankly, at that juncture, I could have borrowed Barry’s .470 Krieghoff and killed the rhino without further ado – not a particularly challenging event, to say the least. However, since I was on a darting mission, the next 45 minutes were filled with excitement and anticipation as I sat still and waited…

After the rhinos had left the field, they soon disappeared from our view. Carl whistled for the crew to bring the vehicle and pick up Ruth Ann and the vet who’d hidden behind a tree about 75 yards behind us to watch the spectacle. All boarded, we followed the path made by the rhinos as they ran downhill into a ravine and spotted the darted rhino in thick bush – about 750 yards in all.

We gingerly approached the downed behemoth, but it became clear that the animal couldn’t move. Its respiration was shallow and rapid and its skin felt quite hot. The vet quickly began taking horn measurements, drawing blood samples, administering antibiotics, etc. The rest of the crew chopped down the nearby brush so that the rhino could be photographed. The dart was still in place; it had been driven in exactly perpendicular to the surface. This is important so that the sedating agent was injected directly into the muscle and not into the very thick skin.

After about 15 minutes, the dart was pulled out – we were ready to begin the final step. With all of us aboard, the vehicle was turned around and made ready to exit. The vet administered the antidote and hot–footed it back to the truck. The rhino seemed to shake itself somewhat and attempted to rise. We made a circle and returned higher up on the hill. By that time, approximately five minutes had elapsed. The rhino was up and walking around unsteadily, but headed in the direction of his departed buddies. Ten minutes later, we saw him grazing with the group as though nothing had happened.

Carl had told us that this was only the second rhino they’d darted, and that it had never been darted before. Also, they would not dart any animal more than once a year. He said that this darting episode had gone as smoothly as he’d experienced. (The next day, I received a certificate of the horn measurements for the SCI Record Book. A fibreglass replica of the horn using these measurements would be sent later.)

We drove back to Barry’s ranch. That afternoon, about 3 p.m., we rode in the high hills looking for smaller plains game. The scenery was absolutely spectacular, and we saw a number of different species. Just as the sun began to set, Barry decided to drive through an area of pines that looked much like Virginia spruce pine to look for a bushbuck with impressive horns.

Barry spotted the animal approximately 120 yards off. Ruth Ann put the rifle on the shooting sticks, but couldn’t see the bushbuck in spite of Barry’s directions. Finally, he said, “Do you see that brown rock?” She concurred. “Shoot the rock!” She did – and the bushbuck promptly fell.

We had an early start the next morning to hunt caracal. The hounds were turned out close to the lodge where two caracals had been seen crossing the road the day before. The handlers released the hounds and walked with them in a brush–covered valley while we remained on the crest of the hill watching their progress. After about 30 minutes, we heard the dogs strike. It soon became quite clear they’d jumped a predator. They ran in full cry for about 30 minutes, finally baying a caracal within about 300 yards of us. When we arrived at the tree, a large male clung to a branch that was densely covered by leaves. Although it was quite visible when I was close, from more than 10 feet away the cat was totally obscured by the foliage. This created a difficult situation because the rifle had a telescopic sight mounted close to the receiver. If I moved far enough away to see clearly through the telescope, the caracal was obscured by the leaves. At a short range, when the cat was visible, the scope couldn’t be focused. In desperation, I sighted down the left side of the barrel and guessed where the bullet should travel.

By sheer luck I killed the caracal. The cat fell out of the tree and was immediately retrieved by one of the handlers so that the hounds couldn’t tear the hide.

That afternoon, we drove to the edge of the Karoo dry–lands, approximately 75 miles north–west, where the terrain was flatter and the vegetation sparse – where Rush Ann completed her goal to acquire three antelope with her springbok. Barry told us that when springboks run a lot or are excited, the hairs on the back exude a particular odour much like cotton candy.

After a day of rest we began the tiring, boring long flight home. In the air, I relived the experience and mulled over the future. I’ve hunted four African countries and taken the Big Five. This safari clearly was not as high a level of excitement as I’d experienced before, but it certainly was far more of a challenge than killing the rhino would have been. I’m certain that our rhino was happier regarding the chosen alternative. In any case, I’ve now climbed the final rung in the African Big Five ladder.

I went out the last morning of hunting and, except for a few baboons and some oribi that I never did spot, it was pretty quiet. By this time it was no great surprise to me.

René dug up some more roots and cut off some more bark to be made into manly medicine to keep his three wives back at the village happy. Occasionally he would set a fire in the long grass and if he and the tracker took too long, I would get up when I thought that we had rested long enough, make a few dorky dance moves… They always took the hint and away we would march. We did track one more roan that day, but again the beast was never spotted and eventually we started the long walk back to camp.

When I got back to camp I spotted my buddy Phill, and I swear that poor guy looked like 90 miles of gravel. He was about done. Sadly, around 10.00 a.m. that morning they’d come across the fresh spoor of a herd of buffalo heading into the mountains. With eight hours of daylight remaining, there was a chance to snatch victory out of the jaws of defeat. A buffalo bull is never to be despised and is certainly worth all the trouble and expense we had undergone to be there.

My great friend, totally worn out, declined to follow up the tracks and ended the hunt. I think that everyone involved was so disappointed. I sure in the hell was.

That evening we had the men come up one at a time and gave them each a tip and a brand–new panga. Cam Grieg had suggested the amounts for the tips, and mentioned that if more money were given, the guys would buy guns and/or ammunition and shoot game.  I should have packed some clothes/watches or something to augment the tips, but I really didn’t have any room in my suitcases. And money is always good.

When we broke camp early the next day, we had to make almost a seven–hour detour to the north to pay for the buffalo at the office that was in charge of such things. It was nice to see some new country along the way, and we were in no great hurry to get to town anyway, as the train left at 6.00 p.m. the following day. One always leaves a lot of extra time to allow for breakdowns in that country. Even the train was not beyond such things.

Daniel set us up in a $33–a–night motel back in Ngoundéré and we both quite liked the place. Phill had been craving a cold beer a few days earlier so when he went to his room to shower and rest for a while I sent the local cook/waitress out for two cold beers for my friend.

Later:

Me: Phill, I got the girl who works here to go out and get you a cold beer!
Phill: It had better not be Guinness!
Me: No! No! I saw the two bottles. They’re not Guinness.
Phill: Well, O.K. I’ll have a little. But what I really want is cold milk or iced tea.

That night the lady made us up some tasty but rather tough chicken and chips for supper. The meal for the two of us cost 8,000 Cameroon francs – about $16.00. I was happy with that but did wonder if they whacked the chicken as it was running a marathon race past the restaurant.

I really wanted to contact my wife, Margaret, after the satellite phone fiasco so Daniel and I walked down town about 7.00 p.m. As we left the gated compound we had to walk by about 10 or 12 men yelling at each other in the dark. We were about three feet from them as we walked by. A few big rigs were parked there and obviously the men were not happy about something. I probably should have taken a few flash pictures of the angry guys, but I have yet to descend into total stupidity.

I had no luck getting into the hotmail account, but I did try. We came back with Coke and watermelon and some oranges. All this pleased Ol’ Sir Phull.

The next morning Phill did his very best to get the cook to make him some fried eggs, over easy. He explained verbally, he drew pictures, he had a tracker there that could speak some English and had that guy explain it in French to the lady. And then he followed her into her tiny restaurant, grabbed an egg, pantomimed putting it in a frying pan that was sitting there… paused… pretended that he took the egg out of the pan onto a plate.

Twenty minutes later, my delicious ordered omelette was handed to me. Phill got a couple of eggs fried together, flipped over as an omelette and handed to him. He was not at all happy, as fried eggs are of utmost importance in his universe.

A day later he was wanted to order Coke and bitters from a lady in a bar in the last hotel we stayed at.  Wasn’t going to happen, and he quickly realized that when I pointed out the absurdity of the wish.

As a change of pace, we ordered fish and chips for lunch and were given a complete little fish on a plate. I’m happy to say that it was delicious. After that, our ride to the train depot showed up, and we grabbed our gear and drove away. Phill forgot to pay, I didn’t. I left my motel key in the room; Phill handed his to Daniel later that night a few hours into the train ride.

We did the long train ride, and again we had chicken for our evening meal. Hard to know how they kill them as they’re tough old birds. But tasty.

We told Daniel we were willing to pay more money for a hotel room as Phill was craving air–conditioning. As so often happened on this trip Daniel listened carefully, agreed totally, and then took us back to the old hotel where nothing worked including the air–conditioning.

It wasn’t all bad – Phill finally got his fried eggs the next morning. The waiter not only could speak English, but also knew enough not to bring the change back after the meal, so Phill ended up giving the chap about a four–dollar tip.

On the trip downtown I had the pleasure of watching a traffic cop in a traffic circle go nuts! Some dude in a car had offended him and he was shouting at the fellow, and then started kicking the front of his car, then kicked down on his hood denting it. From there he went around to the side of the rapidly depreciating automobile and started kicking in the side! Suddenly, from out of nowhere came the only jeep that I was to see in Cameroon. It was driven by another cop who rammed the car head on!

Later we drove by the poor shell–shocked fellow. He was having a very bad day. I think that he was in the wrong lane, but since most drivers in that city drive like they’re insane, I’m not exactly sure what set off the copper.

After a shopping trip that was mostly a fiasco, we spent the last six hours in Cameroon in Daniel’s house watching music videos. The Cameroon chicks sure like to shake their booty…

Pascal, our driver, did not show up to take us to the airport. Daniel got on the phone and yelled for a while. He then drove us to the main road and waited. Once again he got on his cell phone and did some more yelling.

Eventually, Pascal showed up with his little boy. He got behind the wheel and started shouting at Daniel as he drove. Daniel was now silent. Pascal next phoned some lady and hollered at her.

The airport was about 10 miles away and we had five hours to get there. Pascal tried to do it in five minutes. About eight miles into the trip, and after just missing another head–on collision, I saw Phill putting on his seatbelt. My nerves might have been getting a bit frayed about then as I snarled at him, “Are you nuts? Now you’re putting on your seat belt?”

My big consolation in all this was that if I got killed in a head–on, Pascal was not going to be getting any tip from me! On that I was adamant.

At the airport we got our guns cleared for take–off … a nice lady wanted elephant meat but we had shot no jumbo. Daniel gave the official a bribe when all the paperwork was done.

Later, we went through security and the lady cop hit me for 5,000 francs. She pointed at her breast and said, “Pour moi.” I gave her the nasty bribe and, now that I think about it, being a man (and all men being pigs), if she’d taken off her blouse, I might have given her 10,000 francs and there would have been no hard feelings…

Phill was taken for 3,000 francs. He was sent to the same lady with the person doing the sending saying, “An American. They will take him.” Or some such comment of what was about to happen.

On the long flight to Zurich, Phill finally got his milk that he had wanted for so long.

It was warm.