Into The Thorns

Feb 10, 2025 | Hunting Stories

In 2008, renowned Zimbabwean leopard hunter, Wayne Grant, wrote a book called “Into The Thorns,” which was published by Mag set publications. This book was very well received, and regarded by many, as the best, most complete work on leopard hunting and leopard conservation. Due to its popularity, Into The Thorns sold out rapidly, and has not been on the shelves for many years. The shelf price for this book was $100, but these days, second-hand copies are advertised on eBay and elsewhere for prices between $300 and $400.

In 2020, Wayne completed a second book called “Drums of The Morning”, which primarily covers lion hunting and lion conservation issues. This book was also popular amongst big game hunters and collectors, and several veterans of the safari industry stated that these two books should be required reading for anybody preparing to be a professional hunter.

Because of the interest in, and scarcity of Into The Thorns. Wayne’s agent in Texas (Good Books In The Woods) persuaded Wayne to produce a second edition of this book with an additional five chapters. (approx. 50 pages). This second edition was published and limited to 1000 copies signed by the authors, and are available at Good Books In The Woods, in Houston, Texas.

Into The Thorns

Introduction

 

Malindidzimu. “Dwelling place of the benevolent spirits.”

 

Silozwane. Shumbashava. Njelele. Bambata Caves. Old names.

 

Old names, conjuring up hidden, misty scenes. Ancient rituals, cleansings, murders. All sorts of magic and divinings performed here over the centuries by the tribal spirit men.

 

The giant balancing boulders, purple now in the late evening, brood silently over the hidden bush-choked valleys, caves, and crevasses. The Matobo hills. Unspeakable happenings, disappearing slowly in the drifting shadows of time.

 

Here in south western Zimbabwe hundreds of thousands of acres of jumbled granite hills, known in southern Africa as “koppies”, sprawl in broken rugged splendour all the way from the Bulawayo – Johannesburg road in the east, to the Botswana border, 120 miles away to the west, where the hills melt away into the dry scrubland of Botswana’s semi desert.

 

Two thousand million years of erosion has removed six miles of earth to expose these fantastic formations. Some of the koppies are quite small – about 120 feet higher than the surrounding bush, but other giant hills rise up a thousand feet – sometimes more, often forming almost impenetrable ranges over 20 miles long. It is wild country. Long before the black tribes came down from the north about a thousand years ago, these hills, caves and valleys were home to the Bushmen – the small hunter-gatherer people who were the original occupants of so much of southern Africa. These lithe gold-brown nomads were gradually forced out by the ever-increasing northern blacks, until finally, over the centuries, they adapted to the western desert areas, covering what is now Botswana, Namibia, and southern Angola. Today small clans still exist in these areas, but it would be hard to find many Bushmen still existing in their ancient traditional ways.

 

But these original African aboriginal folk have left rich records of their passing. Hundreds of caves and other surfaces protected from the weather, still today, show beautiful accurate scenes of the hunt: dancing scenes, trance scenes and symbolic pictures of every description – all lovingly painted in amazing proportion. Some of these wonderful pictures have been reliably dated to over two thousand years old.

 

Today’s Bushmen who have known only the great thirst-lands have lost these skills with the painting. They’ve long since lost the verbal history of the early inhabitants of the mystic Matobo hills. But you can find a hidden cave still, up in a cool gorge far from prying eyes and you can sit there quietly, staring at the simple clean lines of a running kudu bristling with arrows, the hunters running behind, bows drawn and blood obo range. Small family groups allied with other groups. The weak were defeated by the strong. The Torwa dynasty weakened. Alliances crumbled.

 

Influx from as far away as Lesotho and Vendaland, in what is now South Africa, influenced and added to the colour and history in what is now south western Zimbabwe, and the Matobo hills were the spiritual centre for them all.

 

In the early 1800’s, far to the south, in what is now Zululand in South Africa, Shaka, King of the Zulus turned his attention to one of his subjects – Mzilikazi, leader of the Khumalo clan, who had become wealthy in status and in cattle. Mzilikazi and his people fled north – settling temporarily twice, before they moved into what is now south western Zimbabwe in 1837. This was the birth of the Amandebele nation, and with their warlike Zulu traditions they dominated and influenced the fractured tribes around them, amalgamating into a powerful force who, some fifty years later, would have to deal with a new threat – the threat of the white tribes. Once again massive strife and bloodshed amongst the people between the rivers. Gold, or rather, perceived gold, and millions of acres of vacant land enticed the hungry colonial powers to look toward the “unknown” country between the two great rivers, and once again the tribes fought. The strong dominated the weak. The weak found new friends and became strong. Nothing changed in the giant scheme of things.

 

The humans fought, lived, and died. They are still fighting. Today. Between the two rivers. But the haunting hymns of wind, playing gently through the ancient watching rocks, are the same gentle melodies that were listened to by the Bushmen so long ago.

 

And through these secret gorges and ancient wooded valleys another hunter pads silently along the winding trails. Oblivious to the madness of man and the unhappy relations the peoples have with one another. He was in these hills before the Bushman, and he knows the dappled valleys well. He is the hunter. The ultimate survivor. The Matobo leopard. Millions of acres of rocky wilderness have housed him, hidden him, and fed him through the centuries, and he is hunting there still.

 

I was ready for the charge and walked left footing leading at every step, my rifle up in the firing position ready to go. Sure enough, about four good paces up between the rocks I spotted a flattened area in the black soil. George bent down, looked closer at the ground, lay the back of his hand against the flattened patch and immediately backed off behind me, whispering “U kona – dusi.” I stood still for a full minute. Nothing. I crouched, looked down. There was fresh blood in the leaves. I felt the ground. It was warm. We had spooked this animal in the last few minutes. He was very much alive. I edged on to the top of the small outcrop, adrenalin singing through my veins. He wasn’t there. The tracks, no blood now, led down, and turned left.

Into the Thorns is now available at Good Books in the Woods

www.goodbooksinthewoods.com

jay@goodbooksinthewoods.com

Where The Turacos Sing

Feb 10, 2025 | Hunting Stories

Usually, hunting bongo is not very difficult; it doesn’t require insurmountable physical effort. But it does demand tenacity, concentration, and the willingness to face the often-hostile and sometimes painful equatorial forest. One must also accept the long, tedious 4×4 drives day after day, often seeing nothing until the right track is found.

 

This story will show that sometimes it can be excessively difficult, both mentally and physically, far beyond the usual hardship. This is not necessarily what we seek in a hunting trip, since the hunter is supposed to be on vacation. I believe that big game hunting in general should be associated with a quest that requires a minimum of physical effort. In this particular case, it was extreme and without enjoyment.

 

At the beginning of June, we welcome a European hunter, accompanied by his agent and cameraman. The trio is young, full of energy, and very friendly. The hunting season in Congo had started several weeks earlier. The rains are regular, and the salt licks are frequented by bongos, buffaloes, and other forest animals. The hunting conditions are good. After six days of hunting (half of the trip), we still haven’t found any signs of a solitary bongo bull. We’ve already covered several hundred kilometres in 4×4 and several dozens on foot.

 

On the morning of the seventh day, we finally reach the “hot spot” of the territory at the moment, the Lokongo baÏ. The bridge, about ten meters long, had broken the last time the heavy Toyota passed. The vehicle had dangerously reared up but had not fallen into the river. A team had spent two days repairing it, and we could finally access the area. After the famous bridge, we have to take the infernal road. Only three kilometers have been opened up with machetes and elbow grease. The ruts, mud, and roots force us to drive slowly, and the jolts are brutal for the human body…

 

Then, we reach the end of the trail, in the middle of the equatorial forest. There is nothing, just the hostile and brutal jungle. From here, a small path opens up, which we cleared with the Baka trackers. It takes about half an hour to walk the two kilometers to reach the Lokongo baï. The small meadow is located on the right bank of the crystal-clear river of the same name as the baï. These natural clearings, rich in minerals, attract countless multicolored butterflies, Gabon grey parrots, green pigeons, gorillas, buffaloes, and of course, bongos, which are the main goal of this safari.

 

It is still early, and the fog has not yet dissipated when we discover a beautiful track of a solitary bongo. The front hoof is long and wide, making deep marks on the wet ground. After a thorough inspection, we notice that one of its legs shows an unusual mark, as if it had been cut. The animal has probably gotten caught in a poacher’s trap and can no longer place its foot normally. The trail camera check confirms the presence of a large bongo… Indeed, its body and neck are massive. Its roman nose shows a mature animal. The horns are long and thick. All the signs are there to start the pursuit.

After the excitement of this great discovery, all the members of the team focus and prepare for the tracking. The Baka trackers rip a few leaves from nearby plants and attach them to their belts for “good luck”. The superstition or the citizen of the forest plays an important part in everything they do, especially when they go hunting. The six dogs are unleashed, and the hunt begins.

 

An hour later, we find ourselves back at the starting point, returning to the salt lick… The animal made a large loop, we took the wrong trail… Frustration is visible on everyone’s face. The hunters’ expressions are slightly mocking and irritated… there’s a feeling of shame among the trackers and the guide for making the mistake. The good mood takes a hit, but we remain confident. A few minutes pass, then Robert, the experienced Baka tracker from neighboring Cameroon, restarts the tracking. We are in single file behind the solitary, who is heading deeper into the Congolese forest.

 

Suddenly, the forest darkens, the wind blows dangerously through the treetops, and then comes the rain… or rather, the tropical deluge, where each drop feels like a liter… our hopes of seeing the bongo vanish. We shelter for a few minutes under our ponchos, but the storm is too violent. It takes two hours of walking through the pouring rain to reach the 4×4. We are, of course, soaked to the bone, shivering from the cold, and all the muscles in our bodies are stiff and sore. The return to camp is uneventful, but still in good spirits. That was the first tracking of the trip.

 

The next day, the eighth day of the safari, we return to check the salt lick after the deluge. The verdict is clear—no track. Nature tests our patience…

 

Ninth day of the safari; a day of grace and pain

The generator starts at four in the morning. A hot coffee helps wake everyone up. By four-thirty, the whole team and the dogs are in the car. It’s time to leave. We need an hour of driving to reach the parking area deep in the jungle.

 

By five-thirty, with the first light of dawn, we begin walking towards the salt lick. We still don’t know that a long day awaits us… At six in the morning, we arrive at the baï and find that a bongo left only an hour ago. The track and the images from the trail camera show that it is the same animal we followed two days ago. Eyes meet, gleaming with excitement. A few words are exchanged, and the six Basenji dogs are released. I know from experience that the tracking should not take more than thirty minutes before the dogs corner the bongo. I don’t say anything and give the signal to go. The sun is already high in the clear sky. Sweat pours down, and shirts are soaked. The long human column stretches out into the humid forest without making too much noise. With the ground still very wet, the tracking is easy and fast. The animal heads southwest, towards the small swampy river called Baboundou. After twenty minutes of walking, we bump into a herd of lowland gorillas. We see them running and descending from trees, sliding down the trunks. It’s total chaos… The large primates scream and break branches, the dogs bark fiercely. The trackers shout insults 

n their local dialect and bang their machetes on the trees. It takes several minutes before the dogs are all gathered safely, because without them, it would be impossible to bay a bongo in this environment. I know deep down that the solitary has heard it all and has fled at full speed. Now alerted, it won’t be easy to catch. But it’s still early, and we don’t have many days left in the trip. We have no choice but to pick up the trail and go on.

 

Two hundred meters after the drama, we realize that the animal has begun to run at full speed. The hunter asks me if we can still catch it. I explain that we need to try for a few more hours. The morale is a bit shaken, but we are still full of energy. The tracking continues.

 

At this point, the bongo is no longer feeding; it is seeking the most impenetrable spots. We must crouch, climb over fallen trees, crawl, and avoid the thorny vines that tear at the skin. Although the trackers clear the way with machetes, the progress is slow and difficult. The body is being put to the test.

 

Now the bongo is walking with the wind at its back and leaps into a river, following it for a few hundred meters. It’s trying to outwit us; it’s very clever. We wade through water and mud up to our thighs. Soaked, we emerge from the swamp and fall into a column of ants. Thousands of ants moving, and of course, they climb on us and bite our legs. We run and jump, but they are everywhere, within thirty meters of the group.

 

Some dive into the river, others strip off their pants to get rid of the ants. The torment is added to the hours of walking and the uncertainty of the chase. After several hours, our solitary bongo mixes its tracks with those of a herd… Is it a coincidence or yet another trick?

 

Thanks to the determination and patience of the pygmy trackers, we are able, after several minutes, to continue our journey. I glance at my watch—five hours of pursuit, and our bongo shows no signs of fatigue, unlike the hunters and dogs. At this point, I don’t know what the hunter is thinking. I avoid looking at him or asking questions.

 

The suffering is real… I know the trackers will not give up, but I think about the hours of walking back and dread the thought of facing the jungle at night. The steps are heavy and uncertain; roots and vines trip us up. We must accept and push beyond our comfort zone, continue deeper into the forest.

 

After six hours of walking, we find ourselves at the footstep of a mountainous area with steep, slippery slopes. Robert, my faithful tracker, looks at me and says, “It’s going to stop at the top; it’s not too far now.” I’m convinced the solitary is going to climb to the top of its domain, find a thick thicket, lie down, and chew cud while watching for danger.

 

The small hunting party stops to rest before the final rush. We gather the dogs, who immediately fall asleep. The usually talkative pygmies are silent. While smoking their cigarettes, I see the weariness in their faces. Do they doubt the outcome of this hunt?

 

I don’t know, and I don’t ask. I know deep down that everyone is physically drained, and I also know the return will be a nightmare.

 

The slope is so steep that the beautiful striped antelope climbs in zigzags… we must grab onto shrubs to avoid sliding down the slope on our stomachs… calves and thighs burn, breath is short, and temples throb. At the top, we must stop to recover.

 

The summit is made up of exceedingly dense, almost impenetrable vegetation. The vines entangle us, blocking our path. Again, we must climb over, duck, and cut through quietly. The wind is blowing slightly in our direction. Robert is at the front, and we follow closely behind. The dogs walk around us as if they know the end is close.

 

Suddenly, the small lead female with red fur raises her nose and darts off at full speed, taking the rest of the pack with her. We hear the bongo fleeing in a cacophony of leaves and branches. The dogs catch up and bay the bongo. Despite the fatigue, they stand strong against the aggressive bongo. It is the final rush for the hunters. We run as best we can through the vines, which scratch our arms and faces. A tunnel opens between the low branches, and the solitary is there, head lowered, facing the dogs. The hunter calmly raises his rifle to his shoulder, he’s side-on, ten meters away. The shot went off with a deafening echo.

 

The beautiful antelope collapses, struck down. It has come to offer itself to the hunters at the highest point of its territory, as if to honor its memory and make way for another bull. A group of turacos sings in the tall trees.

 

The hugs between the men are sincere, warm, full of brotherhood and respect. Everyone realizes how intense the effort has been. It is time for photos and to skin the animal. All the meat is loaded into baskets made on-site using vines. Each load weighs over 40 kg. I try to dissuade Robert, Oscar, Diky, Rodrigue, and the old Bado from carrying such heavy loads, but nothing works.

 

Only the stomach contents are left behind. I don’t know where they find the strength for this, as we still have several hours of walking to reach the 4×4. The GPS shows the vehicle is 11 kilometers away in a straight line. The return mission seems almost impossible since we need to clear a path through the jungle, which would take far too long. We decide to head towards the Baï Baboundou, four kilometers away. From there, we have a trail about nine kilometers long to the vehicle. It’s hard to express how harsh and exhausting the first part to the meadow was. We had to clear the path with machetes. The trackers, loaded like mules, keep stumbling under the weight, and the ropes of the vine baskets break regularly. We have to redo everything and keep going—walking, ducking, climbing, it’s just torture.

 

Our soaked pants hinder our movements. Once on the trail, each root becomes an insurmountable obstacle. The difficulty is at its peak, and there is no more pleasure. Again, the rain joins in, adding even more challenge to our ordeal. I remember suffering during a Derby eland hunt in the Central African Republic, but not to this extent. The environment in which the bongo lives is so difficult that it puts both body and morale to the test.

 

It’s 7 p.m., and night has already fallen when we reach the vehicle. That’s over 13 hours of effort. The last pygmies arrive 30 minutes later. I thank and congratulate each of them. The arrival at camp is around 8:30 p.m. The day lasted sixteen hours…

 

We are exhausted, but the hunter is still smiling. His good humor kept us going throughout this memorable day. I thank him for his trust and to have endured such an effort.

Is this the most physically and mentally difficult hunt of my career? Yes

Are we exhausted? Yes

Did we enjoy it? No

Are we happy? Yes

Would we do it again? No (and yet the story will unfold such that we will return to these hills)

Are we proud of this experience? Yes

Does big game hunting deserve to be this tough? I don’t think so.

 

Before everyone heads to bed, I take my loyal tracker, Robert, by the shoulder to thank him once again. He simply says, “We should never go there again, it’s too far, it’s where the turacos sing.”

Africa Keeps Luring Me Back

Feb 6, 2025 | Hunting Stories

The Bergzicht team poses with my waterbuck.

By Aleen Kienholz

 

In October 2020, I was signed up for a photo safari to Kenya and Tanzania and then a follow-up hunt back at Bergzicht Game Lodge in Namibia. The Covid pandemic nixed my travel plans along with those of thousands of others, and worldwide air travel nearly ground to a halt. We managed a salmon and halibut fishing trip to Elfin Cove, Alaska that June, but masks and Covid tests were an integral part of it, and the lodge was running at less than 20% capacity. We took photos of king salmon wearing the ubiquitous blue masks.

 

Covid protocols were still in effect when I finally flew back to Namibia in late August 2021, but it was more of an annoyance than a danger. Frankfurt airport was very quiet and the lounges and most of the shops were closed. When I got back “home” to Bergzicht, PH Steph Joubert was up north with Italian clients. The father had already taken the Big Five and was hunting hippo and crocodile to complete the Deadly Seven, so owner and PH Hannes Du Plessis was my hunting and photography guide.

 

I had a prioritized list of species that I wanted to take, but anyone who has spent much time hunting knows that a plan is merely an outline and is not written in stone. We started out looking for a nice gemsbok for a rug and a skull mount. If you read my previous article titled If Only We Had More Wall Space, you could correctly assume that we had nowhere in the whole house to put a shoulder mount. Ah, and the gemsbok were skittish and consistently vacated an area before we could even think about trying a stalk in mostly open country.

 

Hannes stopped so that I could photograph an old warthog. He just stood there, so I took him as my first trophy of the trip. One of the effects of a bad drought between my first hunt here in 2018 and this one was that warthog numbers were way down. Efforts to control black-backed jackal numbers had enhanced the nesting success of ostrich, and their numbers were way up. No matter what we do, both action and inaction have consequences, but I love learning more about ecological interactions.

 

My time at Bergzicht was limited, and I did not want to take up too much of it in pursuit of gemsbok, so the second morning we set out for the number two priority on my wish list: a nice representative waterbuck. Along the way, an old blue wildebeest with interesting horns posed for us. I asked the trackers if he was a good one and they replied in the affirmative, so I set down the camera and picked up the rifle. He bolted before I could set up for a shot. Smart old boy. He soon disappeared into the heavy brush. The trackers set out to follow him, keeping in touch by radio, and Hannes and I moved to what might work as an intercept position. It didn’t work.

Even a bachelor impala can be impressive.

Eventually we found a small group of brindled gnus in more open country, and Hannes coached me on which one to shoot. The photo brown lenses in my glasses were so dark from the sun that I was having trouble with the sight picture through the scope. I did not make as good a shot as I normally would, and he ran off with the right leg broken close to the body. That rattled me and more shots were required, but eventually, the old boy was ours. I was astounded to learn that it was the very same animal that we had started out tracking a long way back. Those guys are amazing. The bull’s face was full of battle scars and his incisors were well worn. He eventually made a beautiful rug, and his painted skull hangs in our stairwell. A gemsbok was now OFF my hunting wish list.

 

The Italians had early success and were now back at the lodge. They would continue to hunt with Steph. On the third morning, Hannes and I again headed out in search of waterbuck. We had not driven very far into their preferred habitat before I saw a beautiful bull standing broadside to us. We set up quickly, and I got him in my sights, but I took those dark glasses off first. A gentle squeeze on the trigger, and he dropped in his tracks. Hannes approached him carefully with rifle in hand to make sure that he was dead, always respectful of those wicked horns. He was not terribly old, but was one of the best specimens ever taken on the property. 

Hannes approached him carefully with rifle in hand to make sure that he was dead, always respectful of those wicked horns. He was not terribly old, but was one of the best specimens ever taken on the property. Even though I had NO idea where I could put him, he was prepped for a shoulder mount. I am not fond of the customary tradition of posing with the quarry, but they use some photos for advertising, and I am happy to help with that. I prefer to photograph that experienced team of PH and trackers with the trophy animal. They do so much to make these hunts successful.

 

That afternoon we hunted on a different portion of the property and I was equally lucky to connect with a lovely black impala. He was all by himself and had worn horn tips. If he ever HAD been a harem master, his chances of ever breeding again were very low. He was past his prime, but he was so beautiful. He would also be a shoulder mount. I spent the balance of the afternoon with Steph and the Italians in pursuit of a waterbuck for the son. Along the way, I got great photos of zebra, giraffe, eland and kudu. I was having a wonderful time. We also checked a bait and trail camera that had been set up to lure in brown hyena. Both a leopard and a hyena were caught on camera well after sundown, dining individually on a kudu haunch. A blind was built nearby for the father’s evening hunt for the hyena. (That was successful, but that is the Italian’s story, not mine.)

 

The next morning Hannes and I were looking for red hartebeest. We approached one herd and then another, but they were as skittish as the gemsbok had been. The tracker again did a phenomenal job of discerning the hartebeest tracks from all the other hoof prints in dry soil. We would see them and then lose them, see them again and then lose them again. They finally settled down once they got behind a screen of trees over 200 yards away, but they were not relaxed enough to resume grazing. We waited. I had the scope positioned with a nice view of the edge of the trees. Again, Hannes had his binoculars on the herd and was advising me of their movements. When a lone bull stepped into view, I held over the vitals and pulled the trigger. Again, the animal dropped in his tracks. Like my wildebeest, this fellow had a somewhat funky set of horns. I am normally drawn to symmetry, but I really liked that old bull.

These blesbok rams spent very little time in camera range.

Southern giraffe cow and calf.

I photographed this sable bull again in 2024, and though his horns were then shorter, he was still impressive.

Now the only thing left in my hunting Bucket List for this trip was a springbok, preferably a copper. On the drive the next morning to another part of the property, we found ourselves paralleling a lovely quartet of gemsbok bulls well within shooting range. I just started to laugh. Of course, they were available when I was no longer hunting them! I am a strong believer in the vagaries of Murphy’s Law. Hannes stopped so that I could start taking photos, and all four bulls crossed right in front of us, one at a time, and then stood and watched us from light cover. One of my very favorite photos from the trip has one bull caught in the phase of his elongated trot where all four feet are off the ground.

 

As I had before, I planned to make all of my edited photos available for their advertising needs, be it their website or Facebook. I had asked Hannes’s daughter, Marie Louise, which animal she would must like me to photograph. Blesbok. That is usually easier said than done. When we found a small group that offered a few quick photos, I took advantage of them. Then Hannes noticed a lone copper ram standing broadside ahead of us. I again set down the camera and picked up the rifle. I had to shoot through a screen of grass, but the hit was fatal and the little antelope did not go far. I knew that we could find space on the walls for a shoulder mount that size. It was a warm day, so we took him back to the skinning shed and relaxed over a nice lunch and a glass of wine.

 

That afternoon they dropped off a tracker, me and my camera in a storage building overlooking a waterhole and feeding troughs. It took very little time before the area wildlife filtered back in to eat and drink. First it was the nyala, more of them than I had ever seen before. Then it was the tsessebe. The biggest shock was when herd of sable came in together. There must have been five dozen of them, everything from the year’s calves to young bulls and old veterans. The horns of the herd bull were so long that he had worn marks both through his mane and across his shoulders. Wow. I have made many trips to Yellowstone National Park for photography, but I told Hannes that those few hours sitting by an open window exceeded all of those experiences for productivity. I took over 300 photos and had more work to do, editing them on my laptop computer.

 

The next morning, we did photography closer to the lodge. Among other things, I got nice photos of white blesbok, a leucistic color phase. Bergzicht has four colors of springbok and offers a springbok slam. That morning I completed it my way, with photos. Then we went back to the storage shed. I was again sitting on a cooler by the window, with plenty of water and a big lunch at my disposal. It was HOT, but it was worth it. Many of the same cast of characters came by, plus young warthogs, impala, a few copper springboks, and a pair of blesbok rams. Like an old hunting dog, one was speckled with white beyond his white blaze. Before the tracker and I got picked up for the drive back to the lodge, a nice herd of red lechwe were approaching.

Again, I had over 300 photos to edit. It would not be easy to choose which photos to put into another photo book, and which to leave out. What a trip it had been.

 

Obed took me out for photos on my last full day in Namibia, and we saw a variety of birds, golden oryx (a leucistic gemsbok), black impala, roan, nyala, sable, kudu, giraffe and steenbok. Bergzicht also offers a masked slam, and I now had photos of all four of those antelope too.

 

 

I spend far more time looking through the camera lens than the rifle scope, but both count as “hunting” to me.

This gemsbok bull was momentarily suspended above the road.

Yellowstone has been compared to the Serengeti, but wild Africa is more diverse. Here is my black impala.

This is the first roan antelope that I ever photographed in Africa.

My funky red hartebeest made me smile.

Getting back home again required another Covid test clearance, and airports were still rather quiet. I did not book another hunt right then, but I went back to Bergzicht again in March 2024 so that I could photograph a lot of antelope babies, both on the hunting property and up at Mount Etjo Safari Lodge. Steph helped me to check off all six species on my hunting list for that trip, and I got so many photos that I had to create TWO photo books, one for each lodge. I cannot speak Afrikaans of course, but Google Translate is a helpful tool. The cover of my 2021 photo book says, Ek is lief vir Afrika. Dit besit deel van my siel…or “I love Africa. It possesses part of my soul.” And it always will.

If only we had more wall space…

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories

A black wildebeest was my first plains game trophy.

I am strolling down Memory Lane again with a smile on my face. My six trophies just arrived this morning from my third hunting trip to Bergzicht Game Lodge in Namibia. Every year our house looks more and more like a hunting lodge. We like it that way. It has been a very gradual process. Our wall space and floor space are now so limited that we need to be creative on what we take down, what we put up, and how it is arranged. But let me back up a few decades.

 

I did not grow up in Africa, but it has always called to me. I still watch every BBC and National Geographic special on its lands, people and wildlife. It never grows old. I read Robert Ruark’s Horn of the Hunter before I even became a hunter. My Dad taught me to shoot as a young teen, but I became a huntress in the company of my husband and our friends when we were in college in the early 70s. For decades we hunted white-tailed and mule deer in several states for meat but not for trophies. One of our adages back then was, “you can’t eat antlers”.

 

We both got degrees in biology, and Ron was a self-employed professional taxidermist for over thirty years. Other people’s hunting trophies were therefore part of our income stream, but we did not personally engage in that aspect of hunting. Until we retired and moved to Montana in 2001, we did not even consider making trophy hunting for anything a priority in our lives. There were too many other things to see and do and places to go. Africa never called to Ron. He frequently said that if he could not go to Africa as it was in 1950, he wasn’t interested. Science Fiction time travel aside, that outlook made no sense to me. So, I went on my own. I took out a loan and did a photo safari in Kenya in 1992. That was well before digital cameras and smart phones, when the World Wide Web and personal computers were still technological babies.

 

By the time that I went on my second African photo safari to Zambia in 2014, I was at least in the digital age, and the experience was magical. So yes, wildlife photography also preceded trophy hunting. But I am inching closer to that transition.

 

We had our first trophy hunt in Austria in 2017. In May 2018, a couple of long-time bird- and deer- hunting friends were making a return trip to Bergzicht Game Lodge, and I tagged along with my old Nikon camera and my new 150-600 mm lens. I had no plan to hunt for anything. One of my friends was only after jackal and baboon on this trip, so I rode with the other fellow who had a longer list of desired plains game. On a hunting trip, a mere photographer accedes to the agenda of the hunter in the vehicle. That was OK too, but I saw so many things that I wanted to stop and photograph! One day I borrowed my friend’s rifle to shoot a red hartebeest that was causing problems by fighting through a fence with another bull. He was in a buffer strip between the hunting lands and the neighboring property that ran cattle. PH Steph Joubert put the range finder on him when he stopped running from us, and he was standing broadside about 300 yards away. Although we had all been instructed to hold in line with the front leg, I had hunted for over forty years holding just behind the front leg, and I defaulted to that automatically. It was OK. I took out both lungs and the cull animal died quickly. Steph and the tracker were both impressed with the shot. Now I had the itch to pull the trigger on trophies of my own. Years ago, I saw a quote about how everything in Africa bites, but the worst of all was the Safari Bug. It’s true. That is how it happened to me. I was still taking photos at every opportunity, but I also set my sights on shooting a black wildebeest and a nyala.

 

I know that many hunters go on and on about the make and caliber of their rifles and the particulars of the loads that they shoot, but to me a rifle is a tool. You just need the right one for the job, and the skill, judgment and patience to use it accurately. I have one rifle at home, a Browning .270 that was a gift from my father. I did not bring a rifle to Namibia, so on the sensibly obligatory trip to the rifle range, I was shooting a borrowed gun. I cannot even tell you what it was. I can only say that it was easy to use and did the job. It was time to hunt.

 

When we reached an open area with many black wildebeest in view, we left the vehicle behind and started walking single file through the short, dry grass. Steph went first with the shooting sticks, and I followed close behind with the rifle. I lost track of how many times I set the rifle on the shooting sticks only to have a solitary bull bound further away or into the herd, waving his glorious blonde tail and kicking up his heels. We would spot another loner and head in his direction, but I never had that extra fraction of a second to get the crosshairs on target and pull the trigger. Finally, there was a bull standing still and quartering toward us at about 250 yards. I held just right of center low on his chest to catch both heart and lungs and pulled the trigger. He did not go far, and I had my very first African trophy. That taxidermy mount now hangs in an upstairs bedroom. I give him a pat on the nose every now and then. A wildebeest in the bedroom? Remember, I told you we are very short on wall space.

 

Although eight hours a day might be spent hunting, that still left plenty of time to enjoy the meals and the ambience back at the lodge. Wild game featured heavily in the menu, and I loved that. We even had a chance to sample choice cuts from animals taken that week. For one dinner appetizer, Steph grilled blue wildebeest tenderloins over acacia coals, and they practically melted in your mouth. I also learned that he was quite a joker. He photo-bombed a picture that I was taking of my hunting partners at the dinner table before I even knew what that behavior was called. How was he as a PH? Great. He knew the property. He knew the wildlife and their behavior. He knew how to set up for a good shot. Experience counts, and he demonstrated that he had it in spades. I wish that he would write an article for AHG!

 

What I wanted next was a nyala. That species captivated me the first time that I ever saw one hanging on a friend’s wall…so beautiful. That herd was being built up at the time, and owner Hannes DuPlessis had very few that he was willing to have taken. He allotted two days for that hunt. We patrolled the hunting area in two vehicles, working to spot a suitable nyala or at least find a set of fresh tracks. That was also one of those times when a desired photo op flashed by before I could even say “stop, please”. We drove right by a pair of bat-eared foxes, the first ones that I had ever seen outside of a zoo. I was already thinking that I would have to come back some day, so I put bat-eared fox photos in my Bucket List. Before long Hannes radioed Steph to say that they were following a nice nyala that had just lost his status of herd bull that morning to a younger challenger. Once we were in the right area, we got fleeting glimpses of that bull, but he would disappear behind a screen of large shrubs before I could get the crosshairs on him. Eventually the trackers set out to follow him on foot, and we set up in what we hoped would be an intercept position. Suddenly there he was, walking in our direction. Steph wanted me to wait for a standing broadside shot, but there was no guarantee that it was going to happen. He could just as easily have slipped away in the cover once again. Lines of sight were very limited. As he kept walking, I put the crosshairs on his chest much as I had done for the black wildebeest, and I pulled the trigger. He dropped in his tracks. I was thrilled. As he was being set up for the customary photos of a successful hunt, I could not stop smiling. I was so grateful to the owner, my PH, and the trackers who had made that moment possible. I laid my hand on his forehead, a gesture of respect for the life that I had just taken. I stroked his side, admiring the markings. When Hannes checked his teeth, the wear on his lower incisors showed that he was an old guy. He had been in a lot of battles in his life. His hide was full of old scars plus the new marks from the fight that he had just lost. Back at the lodge, all of the guys kept asking me what I wanted to hunt next or offering suggestions for what they felt I should hunt. Kudu? No. I had too much affection for that regal antelope to kill one. Gemsbok? No. There was still the issue of mount size and wall space. Where could I put a big antelope with big horns? We had already been taking down artwork to make room for trophies from Austria. For the rest of my stay at Bergzicht I only took photos, but I knew that I had to come back some day. The Safari Bug had bitten me, and I was firmly under Africa’s spell.

 

I went back to Bergzicht by myself in both August 2021 and March 2024, hunting again with both camera and rifle, but those adventures and successes are a story for another time. I know that a lot of African hunters and guides frown upon hunting from a vehicle or within any size of enclosure delimited by fences. In my opinion and based upon my experiences, fair chase is not a “one size fits all” code of conduct. Is shooting a white-tailed deer from a hunting stand more ethical than taking an African antelope from a parked vehicle? That is a fine line. I do not condemn others for having different hunting goals or methods from mine. For me, hunting ethics have a core of following the law wherever you hunt, minimizing an animal’s suffering, and of making safety the top priority of every outing. One shot. One kill. It is not something that I have achieved every time that I seek to put meat in the freezer at home, or cross an ocean to hunt in another habitat, but it is true most of the time. Non-hunters don’t understand that the hunt is so much more than just the killing. It is the sights and sounds and smells and sensations that just make you feel more alive, and sharing it with folks who appreciate all of it as much as you do is integral to the whole experience. If I ever lose that twinge of regret when my quarry is lying dead at my feet, that animal that I both desire and respect, then it will be time to quit hunting. I am 74 and I have not reached that point yet. If only we had more wall space!

The face of the red hartebeest was scarred from fighting through a fence with a rival bull.

The photo of a young blue wildebeest scrambling to catch up to Mom was one of my favorites.

Another spectacular Namibian sunrise.

Hannes posed with me and my lovely old nyala.

This young kudu bull was heading for higher ground.

Silhouette of a secretary bird.

One for the Road

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories, News

Masailand, 2006.  A scene that could have occurred in 1906, or 1806, or… But memories are more real than any photograph.

By Terry Wieland

 

Dreaming, Remembering, Reliving

 

Three levels of fantasy

 

In a column for Esquire in 1935, called “Monologue to the Maestro: A High Seas Letter,” Ernest Hemingway reflected on the mechanics of writing and, in particular, how to recreate action so as to have your reader experience it as you did.

 

The key, he told the Maestro— “Mice,” for short, a young man who’d traveled to Key West to seek advice from the master—is to relive the event, isolate the specific thing that caused your emotion and, if you then describe it truly enough, you will evoke the same emotion in your reader.  Hemingway’s example was watching the fishing line strip as a big fish ran, and the line rising into the air and squeezing out the water so it hung in drops, refracting the sunlight.

 

I read that first in 1977—I can remember exactly where and when, but I won’t belabor it—and took it to heart as I attempted to write serious literature in the years that followed.  First, I learned that reliving, and simply remembering, are two different things.  Those who relive and then recreate, on paper, are a world away from those who merely remember and describe.

 

For the record, the former is exhausting.  At the end of a morning, you may be completely wrung out and have one short paragraph to show for it. The latter is considerably less taxing, depending on the writer’s determination to do it well, which is why we have good writers, bad writers, and those who should never touch a keyboard.

 

In 1988, I hunted Alaska brown bears on Montague Island and, some months later, attempted to recreate the incident in a magazine article.  It entailed less than 60 seconds of action as the bear came in fast, responding to a deer call, and finally dropped, five shots later, with its neck broken.  In attempting to relive that event, I learned that one can, through a process almost of self-hypnosis, relive something but (in my case at least) one can do it only three times.  After the third time, it becomes merely remembering.

 

Something similar occurred, attempting to relive a very hot few moments with a Cape buffalo high on Mount Longido in 1993.

 

Sometime in the early 1970s, Gene Hill, who wrote for Guns & Ammo and later for Field & Stream, made a safari in Kenya.  He loved Africa, and after he got home he kept his bags still partly packed with his Africa gear, just in case he got a last-minute invitation to return.  This remained in his closet until after Kenya closed hunting in 1977 and he knew he would never go back—not, at least, to the places he’d been and remembered with a fondness so fierce it resembled Humbert Humbert’s feelings for Lolita.

 

Hill, an extremely gifted writer, wrote about finally unpacking his things, surrendering to the reality that the dream could never come true.  Not now.  The Kenya he’d hunted, and experienced, and grown to love, was gone.  All he had left were dreams.  At least, he called them dreams.

 

Reading that piece, now almost 50 years later, I began reflecting on the difference between dreams—anticipation of things that may never come—and memories—recollection of things that really happened.  And, finally, the reliving of an event the way Hemingway described it.

 

As age has crept up on me, I find myself, usually in the early afternoon, feeling the need to sprawl in a nice chair and close my eyes, just for a bit.  Very rarely do I actually fall asleep, so this hardly qualifies as the much-storied “nap.”  I do, however, descend the cosmic stairs toward nap-dom, one step at a time, and occasionally enter a realm, in the infinitesimal interface between sleeping and waking, that is like time travel.

 

It’s not a dream and it’s never long; it’s a snatch, a snippet—a glimpse at a real place, that I really experienced, years before.  The glimpse is brief, but so intense as to be almost painful.  The water of the lake is real water, the smell of the juniper is real, and the ferns in the hot sun.  Rarely is there any action, just a vivid image lasting only seconds, after which I always jerk back to consciousness, and I am often panting.

 

Never having been hypnotized, I can’t say if this is similar.  From what I’ve read, it appears to be.  Sometimes I can sort of will it to happen, but more often as I drift off my mind wanders and suddenly, there I am—in a tent in Africa in the early morning, with the ever-present cooing of doves, or walking into a biltong shop in Pretoria and smelling the droewors.  And the smell of treated canvas, like old tents?  Back in the army, back in a campground at the age of eight, back in the Okavango.  Could be any of them.  Ah, but that old canvas smell!

 

Sometimes it can be sparked by a whiff of gunpowder or, more usually, a spice.  The merest sniff of cumin and other, mysterious, spices can put me back in the open market in Kampala in 1971— a world that has truly disappeared—and the smell of creosote, well, we won’t go into that.  But if you can’t imagine creosote as an aphrodisiac, think again.

 

The most famous instance of this phenomenon in literature is Marcel Proust and his taste of a madeleine cake dipped in lime tea that brought forth all the memories recounted in Remembrance of Things Past—all seven wondrous volumes—and in the outdoor field, closer to home, Robert Ruark’s The Old Man and the Boy series in Field & Stream in the 1950s.

 

Memories sparked by an aroma are, of course, a different thing than the deliberate drawing of one’s self back into an event in order to isolate the emotional center, à la Hemingway.  In that case, I found, if you do it only twice, leaving the third and last time for a later date, then you always have it, like a diamond tucked away for safe keeping.  It’s always available to be taken out and relived, but you never do it, because then you wouldn’t have it anymore.

 

This is, I know, a long way from Gene Hill’s Field & Stream column about dreaming of Africa, and remembering, and—in his case—regretting that which once was and would never be again.

 

The truth is, and I hate having to quote Thomas Wolfe, who wrote only one memorable thing in his word-drenched life, and that a title, but you can’t go home again.  No, really, you can’t.  Many have tried, and maybe that’s why children today never want to leave home in the first place.  But once gone, we quickly learn that what we left ceased to exist the moment we left it.

 

My Kampala of 1971, or Nairobi of 1972, or even, most recently, 1999.  The Okavango in 1990?  The Rift in 2006?  Gawd, I even remember when downtown Johannesburg was a pleasant place, and the Carlton Hotel in the center of town, with its pinball arcade in the bottom floor, attracted the little black African kids off the street, and they would challenge us to pinball matches and always win.  They were pinball wizards worthy of The Who, and I learned a few words of Xhosa and Zulu, long since buried, and I wonder where they are now?

 

One time, I caught a whiff of woodsmoke and was instantly transported to a campfire outside Gaborone, grilling mutton on sticks.  I want to say the wood then was acacia, and there are varieties of acacia in America, so the firewood must have been some of that.  Where it came from I have no idea, and it passed as quickly as it came.  More’s the pity.

 

Speaking of wood, sand a piece of walnut and you’ll find me back in my parents’ basement in the 1960s, refinishing the stock on a Cooey .22.  Or melt some linotype for bullets and I’ll be in the composing room of the newspaper where I started out way back when, and everything will be bright in spring and everything will be possible, because that’s the way it is when you’re 19.

 

They say your sense of smell is the strongest link to memory, and I have found nothing to dispute that.  Hearing—music—is a distant second, while sight and touch do not figure at all.

 

What I’ve learned from all this is that our memories long outlast even the most pleasurable experience.  They are a world, however, that most people never bother to really, truly, explore.  Which is unfortunate cuz, I hate to tell you, eventually that’s all you’ll have, and a little practice ahead of time never hurts.  It’s all I have left of the Africa I knew.

Next Time with Chad!

Dec 5, 2024 | Hunting Stories

Written by Dustin Bomley

Africa has been a mystical dream since I was 15 and started hunting with my uncle’s hand-me-down recurve bow. As I grew older and began shooting in 3D archery tournaments around the region, I always most enjoyed shooting the exotic African replica foam targets. Fast forward to my 40s, travelling across states carting my son to his “A” level hockey team practices, another hockey dad and I begin talking about hunting and shooting. We instantly became friends, as not only were our sons teammates, but our interests were aligned. I told my new friend, Chad, that someday I would love to hunt Africa.

 

Chad’s response, “I know just the guy and outfitter to go with!”

 

The next day at practice Chad arrived sporting a memory book that he had made from his trip to South Africa just a few years previously, hunting with Mike Birch’s Hunt the Sun Safaris. While I thumbed through the pages Chad described the very aspects that draw many sportsmen to the Dark Continent!

 

I was sold! When do we go? This was February of 2021 and Chad got the wheels rolling. 

 

As we touched down in Johannesburg in late June 2022 my expectations were high, and I was absorbing everything I could. We lodged overnight at the Afton Safari Lodge, a transition spot for safari goers, and then were off on an early flight to Port Elizabeth the next morning. We didn’t arrive at our camp until the first evening, as we had to wait all day for a second flight from Joburg due to our rifle cases not arriving on our earlier flight. We rushed to get rifles shot while checking zero before dark so we could begin our hunt the next morning.

 

The first morning of my African safari was everything that I could have imagined! We made our way high onto a mountaintop in search of one of several target animals. My PH, James, and tracker Sperlo were glassing mountain reedbuck when I spotted a small group of kudu 800 yards away, making their way across an open area below and to the east of our position. Once it was determined that the bull was worth going after, we began our slow and methodical descent from our elevated perch. Moving into a good position and with a solid rest established, we waited as the kudu bull moved slowly into my predetermined shooting lane. The bull was 330 yards, and I squeezed the flat trigger on my custom 7mm SAUM to bag my very first African animal.

 

 

Little did I know that I had begun a quest—a quest that I would not completely realize until planning my second trip with Hunt the Sun Safaris.

 

The first trip to South Africa had been spectacular and I also had my then 16-year-old son in tow. We took a variety of animals during our trip, but not until a year and a half after returning home did I realize that I wanted to pursue what many call the Spiral Horn Slam which consists of African animals with horns that spiral from the base to the tip. The primary four in this “Slam” is the kudu also known as the Grey Ghost of Africa, eland, nyala and bushbuck. Each is entrenched in its own unique habitat, and as I began to study these wary animals, I learned each hunt would require its own strategy. 

 

Chad and I began discussions regarding our future goals and dreams for returning to Africa. As can be imagined, Cape buffalo entered the conversation! Chad and I both have this crazy disease (more of an addiction) to firearms. In our talks we decided that we should buy a pair of matching rifles for our next safari. Thinking along the lines of buffalo, we elected to go with the venerable .375 H&H Magnum.

 

We then had to decide what brand of rifle we wanted to purchase or have built. In my research I came across Parkwest Arms and immediately fell in love with the look and options available on the SD-76 model. After much research and banter, Chad and I both ordered our first Parkwest rifles. Mine was a splendid Savanna, including wood fine enough to drive any fine furniture maker crazy. Chad’s rifle was a Dark Continent with the fit and finish of a Rolls Royce and a walnut stock that will make any safari goer drool with envy.

 

Planning began, airline flights were booked, but Chad had a medical issue crop up out of nowhere. We were a few months from leaving on this much looked forward to safari with Hunt the Sun Safaris, when my hunting buddy was forced to bow out of the trip…

 

Scrambling, I assembled a fine group of friends to join me, and they were all greatly anticipating the journey, just as I had during my first trip. The only problem was that I didn’t want to hunt buffalo with the new Parkwest Savanna without Chad and his Dark Continent along. Shifting gears, I began to revisit the Spiral Horn Slam.

 

Day three of my second trip to RSA, with a few animals taken by my accompanying friends and a few failed stalks made on eland, I began to have doubts about my spiral-horn ambitions.

 

We were on our way back to the Arnotsdale Lodge following my friend Adam’s successful barbary sheep hunt when our PH Brenley stopped the Toyota Land Cruiser to look over a herd of springbok. Off to the left at about 100 yards stood a small herd of eland. Looking over them, Brenley said there was a big bull in the herd. After a bit of maneuvering and checking the wind, we made a short stalk. The eland bull stood sandwiched between a younger bull and a few cows as they became aware of our presence. With a nervous wander, the bull cleared itself from the others and offered a 211-yard shot. I quickly turned the turret of the Leupold VX6 1-6 and anchored myself on the shooting sticks. A well-placed 270-grain Barnes TSX from my Parkwest Savanna, and the bull stumbled and fell. I must admit, the size of the eland bull stunned me! They look large on the hoof, but walking up to him it blew my mind just how enormous the largest African antelope actually is!

Day six came with an early morning departure from the lodge as we were headed south to where my new PH, JJ, knew of an area that held a good quantity of nyala. Nyala like brush and cover and finding them wasn’t so much the issue as finding a good bull. Once in the area we began to see nyala ewes and some young bulls, but finding one that was mature was becoming increasingly difficult. We were supposed to be moving the entire camp from the Northern Cape on the edge of the Kalahari to the Eastern Cape in the Karoo, and my little impromptu nyala hunt had delayed our departure. JJ and I were ready to call it a morning and begin our move with the rest of the group, when he whispered from behind his binoculars, “There’s a good bull!”

 

My heart leapt and I quickly grabbed my Swarovski 10x42s to scan in the direction JJ was looking. There, about 350 yards away was the bull, walking and feeding with the sun behind him, his white mane glistening in the light, creating a glowing halo around his body. I immediately noticed his orange legs and his lofty spiral horns silhouetted in the blue sky. This was everything I imagined a nyala hunt would be! Once he made his way behind some thorn brush, JJ and I began working our way toward him with the wind in our favor. Keeping a small ridge between us we worked our way into an ambush position. We anticipated a 150-yard shot, but the bull instead appeared from behind a green hedge at just 90 yards. I was already on the sticks and pressed into a stable hold. With the crosshairs burned on his right shoulder, the shot broke and the magnificent bull lunged up and into the next hedge. JJ turned and high-fived me, but then said, “Get another round loaded, these critters are tough, and those horns are sharp and dangerous!”

 

We approached the downed nyala, both its shoulders broken from the Barnes TSX. JJ had me shoot once more for insurance. I had taken my top target animal and was overwhelmed. Such a beautiful creature!

On day eight we settled into a beautiful farmhouse named Whytebank in the Eastern Cape, about three hours outside of Port Elizabeth. The temperature was a frigid 26 degrees F and for the second time in 18 years (according to the farm owners) there was snow on the ground in the mountains surrounding us. I was back with my original PH, Brenley, and we were headed out to see what we could find. Adam was looking for bushbuck, mountain reedbuck or blesbok. I was focused on bushbuck, as that would complete my Spiral Horn Slam. We started out, heading south to an area that Brenley knew had some good mountain reedbuck, when the radio began to sputter. One of the other trackers, Albert, was on the radio with Brenley speaking one of the 11 official different languages used in RSA. I picked up enough to know there had been a bushbuck spotted and Albert knew that our Cruiser had the bushbuck guys in it. A quick U-turn to the north and an 80 kph ride on a dirt road, and we soon approached an area called Many Waters. As we were looking up the hill, our tracker Anton spotted a long-horned ram and ewe on the downhill side. Brenley glassed him over and decided he was a mature ram. A 239-yard shot delivered from my trusty Parkwest Savanna and my Spiral Horn Slam was complete!

It took me two trips to complete my slam. Today Chad is on the mend from his medical issue, and we are beginning the planning for our third trip. This foray will also be outfitted by Mike Birch, Hunt the Sun Safaris, but we will be going a different direction. The third trip will take place in the Timbavati area of South Africa, and we both will be targeting the elusive Cape buffalo on his home turf while toting Parkwest rifles!

A couple of pre-safari, 100-yard practice groups with the Parkwest SD-76 Savanna chambered in 375 H&H Magnum.

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