By Sara Haigh

In March 2025, I lost John, my husband and best friend of over 37 years.

John was first diagnosed with cancer 26 years ago at the age of 54. Despite this adversity John acquired a zest for life, rose to the challenge of seeing more of the world, and we had many wonderful adventures – but Africa became the beloved passion.

As a young boy in the 1950s, he was captivated by the wildlife films of Arnoud and Michaela Dennis, bewitched by the images, never thinking he would have the privilege of hunting in Africa. But that opportunity came when friends introduced us to Ian Harmer.

Ian recognized our interest and enthusiasm for Africa and told us he was embarking on another hunting safari to South Africa in October 2011. “Why don’t you come with me?”

An opportunity not to be missed, so on 6 October 2011, we flew to Port Elizabeth to be met by our PH Kobus Hayward of Blue Cliff Safaris. After 45-minute drive north to Kirkwood we arrived at the lodge in an area of rolling hills covered in fynbos.

Blue Cliff Safaris, owned and operated by Kobus Haywood and his wife, is where hunting takes place on 15,000 acres of their property as well as on more than half a million acres of Eastern Cape hunting concessions, with terrains ranging from thick fynbos bush to open plains.

Ian was there to hunt blue duiker, Cape grysbok, grey duiker and steenbok, but when our party was heading out for Ian to hunt for a grysbok, Kobus suggested John take the other rifle in case there was a chance for an impala. We saw many impala that morning but most were skittish. Eventually Kobus saw an opportunity, a lone ram. John and Kobus left the vehicle and stalked in. His first shot was not the easiest, a little over 100 yards, partially obscured by a bush. The impala ran about 60 yards and was found dead after about 15 minutes of searching in the thick fynbos.

A couple of days later we made a very long day’s visit to a farm in the Great Karoo for Ian and John to hunt for steenbok, and both men were successful. Though it was exhausting for John he was captivated by the austere beauty of the Karoo, the vast desolate landscape with occasional ruins of settlers’ old farmsteads and rusting abandoned wind pumps against a spectacular night sky.

There are many things that bite in Africa but the worst is to be bitten by the hunting safari bug. It can seriously damage your bank account! And the bug had well and truly bitten. We booked to return to Blue Cliff in October 2012 with our friend Peter Townley who took a blue wildebeest, bush buck and caracal. John took a grey duiker and a blesbok that was spotted about one thousand yards away. An old ram was chosen. There was scant cover, but John and Kobus stalked into about 120 yards, and rising quickly from the grass the shot was successfully taken.

The final day of the 2012 safari was truly memorable, with a duiker taken in the last hour or so, after Peter had taken a caracal in the morning and a bushbuck in mid-afternoon.

Namibia had fascinated us during a holiday there in 2008, and by 2013 we had a burning desire to return to the country to hunt, and after searching the Internet, we chose Otjinuke Hunting Ranch, owned by Gert and Marina Muller. It is about 120 miles from Windhoek and 50 miles northeast of Okahandja, covering 6500 hectares in the Ombatuzu Conservancy.

Gert had recently had a hip replacement and so a young freelance professional hunter, AW Viljoen had been contracted to help with the hunt for steenbok, springbok, hartebeest and gemsbok – perhaps John’s favorite antelope and trophy. In his short, privately published Kaikebab – An African Hunting Memoire he wrote: ‘There is something special about seeing a lone gemsbok in free-ranging semi-arid habitat. The grey body with white and black legs and head sporting impressive rapier-like horns that are much admired by hunters and wildlife photographers.’

John enjoyed eating what he had killed and loved picnics. After the morning the hartebeest was taken Gert and Marina invited us to join them for lunch at a large waterhole. AW had made a ‘puff adder sausage’ using the chopped liver and kidneys from the springbok taken the day before, mixed with diced onion and herbs and stuffed into a length of intestine before cooking it on the braai. It was delicious, and with hearty lamb chops, gemsbok sausage, potato salad and chilled beer it made the perfect safari lunch. Sitting in the shade of an acacia tree we relaxed and watched warthogs drinking at the waterhole. It was an idyllic place.

Gert, Marina and their Otjinuke Game Ranch had been superb and the love affair with Namibia was cemented.

When we looked for a safari in 2014 we found that Hunters Guide Safaris had been set up by AW, so we decided go there, giving us the opportunity to see and hunt in a different part of Namibia. 

We met at the airport by AW and driven the four-hour journey to the bush camp at Afrika Jag Safaris 16 miles west of Outjo where we were greeted by AW’s wife Rene. The camp is situated adjacent to the dry riverbed of the Ugab River and under the magnificent Ugab Terraces with the Blue Mountains in the distance. Our accommodation was a lovely, thatched rondavel and a large, thatched lodge and lapa where we ate and relaxed around the camp fire. We immediately felt at home. In John’s words:

‘That night we experienced the magic of the African bush sitting round the campfire, the smell of wood smoke, the absence of any human-created sound broken only by distant animal sounds and the complete darkness exhibiting a breathtaking night sky … This is our idea of paradise!’

First on the list to hunt was a Hartmann’s mountain zebra. Possibly this would prove to be the most physically arduous of our hunts in Africa. Starting at a waterhole we followed tracks for several hours before Kobus our tracker informed us that we were near to a small group of zebra. Unfortunately, we bumped some gemsbok that caused the zebra to run.

We returned to Namibia in 2015 and 2016 with Ian Harmer and Barry Schofield, a friend of John’s since schooldays. Over the two safaris John took an impala, a black wildebeest after a long, eventful follow-up, a grey duiker and warthog.

The second warthog of the 2015 safari caused what you might describe as a disproportionate amount of glee, exhibiting John’s almost boyish sense of fun and enthusiasm for the chase. It was the last day and, wanting to make the most of the remaining time as some of us took a siesta, he set out with AW and Kobus the tracker in the heat of the midday sun to look for a baboon or warthog. An old baboon played with them, repeatedly waiting for their approach, then moving on and appearing up another tree another 100 yards further away. They went to a waterhole where a warthog appeared, standing broadside, and it was cleanly killed. They arrived back at camp shouting ‘Wake up! Wake up! and exclaiming ‘God Bless Namibia! God Save the Queen! in a fit of excitement.

The 2015 and 2016 safaris used Afrika Jag, a lodge called Munsterland and the Stillerus Lodge. Stillerus continued the magic, this time providing a photo opportunity of a lifetime when we chanced upon black rhinoceroses again, a cow with calf, an old male and a young female. John and Ian took photos frantically from the back of the truck while AW kept the engine ticking over just in case. We all felt so privileged to have had this wildlife experience. John wrote of Stillerus: ‘A breathtaking sunset … the heavenly night sky then sitting round the campfire with the fragrance of woodsmoke I reflect on the past two days, and I realize again why I love this place so much.’

Throughout our Namibian safaris, klipspringer hunts proved frustrating. After an unsuccessful attempt in 2016 we decided to switch to hunting Damara dik-dik. The area around Outjo is a premium destination for dik-dik, having a high population of the tiny antelope. On our final day we set off to hunt for one, heading to a property called Deurslag. We parked the bakkie, John was given the rifle, and he and AW set off. They crept through the bush and spotted a fine male. Maneuvering downwind, then moving forward to a small clearing, they saw the dik-dik standing broadside at 80 yards, but it moved behind a bunch of small trees. A waiting game followed. Then we heard the rifle’s report.

Kobus appeared first without a carcass, then AW also empty handed. My heart sank. Then to my joy, out came John carrying the dik-dik. I was in tears with happiness. And at that moment John said, ‘I doubt I will ever have a better hunt than this, it has been the pinnacle of my African hunting career, so I am going to finish on a high note…and bring to a close this hunting stage of my life.’

That decision brought closure to our adventures. The six hunting safaris we had experienced had been fantastic and beyond anything that we had ever experienced. He said that these trips had been even more special because he was able to share them with me. We planned to return to Africa with a trip to Tanzania but sadly this had to be cancelled with John being diagnosed with a third primary cancer. I believe that we both thought of it as unfinished business, and John would speak of Africa every day for the remaining seven years of his life. He left the church to the sound of the Namibian national anthem, his safari hat adorning his coffin. The last reading of the service and his epitaph: 

Now I yearn for Africa again,

Parched hills and plains,

Squat trees,

And multitudes of animals and birds

Too numerous

For anyone to name;

But….

I would sorely miss my friends like you!

It was read by Martin Spilsbury, a very close friend and John’s ‘African hunting protégé’. I would not have attempted to write this article without his help. He too has had five fabulous hunting safaris with Hunters Guide Safaris, accounting for a Cape buffalo with AW Viljoen only four weeks before the writing of this piece.

There seems to be someone high above yearning for me to return to the dark continent, and in January 2026, I will carry John in my heart and go back to spend some time with PH AW Viljoen and his lovely wife Rene. It will be a very emotional journey for me, but I believe very much the right thing to do and leave a little bit of something from us both in the dust of Africa, in glorious Namibia, the most wonderful country that stole our hearts.

The Journey to Kamala 

Before arriving in Kamala, we had explored several concessions – each with its own terrain and tempo. Some were open and sun-scorched, while others offered shaded valleys teeming with life. Kamala itself, nestled near East Somerset, is a region of contrasts: thick bush alternates with rocky clearings, and tall grasses sway beside ancient trees like acacia and marula. In the early morning, the air bites with cold and carries the sharp scent of dew-soaked soil. But by midday, the sun bears down, the wind shifts, and the bush changes entirely – animals move into deeper cover, and the silence becomes thick, almost sacred. It’s the kind of land where your senses stay on edge, even when the rifle is at rest. We made camp with careful planning. Ryan, ever the strategist, mapped our movements around recent animal activity, fresh spoor, and wind direction. No shortcuts. No rushing the process. That’s something I’ve always appreciated about hunting with him—each decision is driven by respect for the animal and the environment.

Tracking the Old Warrior 

For two days, we tracked a particularly large Cape buffalo – an old bull whose massive hoofprints and wallows told a story of age, strength, and survival. The buffalo is a symbol of raw, untamed power. They’re not to be underestimated. When wounded or cornered, they become incredibly dangerous. But when observed with patience, they become something more: a mirror of the land’s resilience. Our mornings began in darkness, with boots damp from dew and breath misting in the cold air. With Ryan and a pair of skilled local trackers, we followed fresh dung, flattened grass, and hoof impressions along watering routes and feeding areas. The buffalo had circled back at least once, doubling back in a way that revealed its experience. He was testing us as much as we were tracking him. We remained silent for hours at a time, communicating with small gestures and hushed whispers. We paused to glass open areas. We read the terrain, the light, the wind. The .416 Rigby rested comfortably in my hands – its weight familiar, its purpose clear.

The Shot That Echoed 

It was early on the second morning when it happened. We had tracked the bull to a low rise overlooking a thicket where buffalo often bed down. The terrain dipped gently, offering natural cover. As the first light crept through the trees, the shape of the bull emerged – massive, deliberate, and unmistakable. Even at a distance, you could see he was an old warrior. His horns were thick and deep-curved, worn and pitted by years of life in the wild. Scars marked his hide – evidence of past battles with predators and perhaps other bulls. Ryan leaned close and whispered, “Forty-five inches at least.”

The wind held steady. The distance was perfect. My breathing slowed. I took position, steadied the Rigby, and focused. When I squeezed the trigger, the shot cracked through the morning silence – echoing against the hills. The buffalo dropped immediately. A clean, vital hit. No suffering. No second shot. We approached slowly. Even when they fall, Cape buffalo demand caution. But it was over. The great beast lay still. Up close, he was even more impressive – muscle, horn, and age carved into one formidable animal.

The Moment After 

The silence that follows a successful hunt is unlike any other. It isn’t triumphant. It’s reverent. We stood over the bull quietly, absorbing the gravity of the moment. I knelt and placed a hand on his hide. I thanked him. Not out of ritual, but out of real respect. He had lived a full, hard life. He had earned this dignity. The trackers and guides joined us, and together we processed the animal with care. In the tradition of ethical hunting, nothing was wasted. Meat, hide, horns – all accounted for. The story of that buffalo would live on, not just in memory or trophy, but in sustenance for many.

Campfire Reflections 

That night, under a vast African sky ablaze with stars, we gathered around the fire. The air buzzed with the sounds of the bush—hyenas laughing in the distance, insects humming like a chorus. We ate well, told stories, and shared laughter. But for me, the moment was still sinking in. I’ve hunted across continents. I’ve pursued everything from antelope in Namibia to red stag in Argentina. But something about South Africa holds me in a different way. It’s not just the terrain or the game – though both are exceptional. It’s the depth of the experience here. The connection between hunter, guide, and land feels ancient, sacred. And with Ryan Beattie and the team at Dubula Hunting Safaris, it always feels purposeful. Every hunt is approached with professionalism, ethics, and an understanding that we are guests here. The animals, the trackers, the bush – they are the hosts.

20 Years of Lessons 

Two decades of hunting in South Africa have taught me that the true essence of the hunt is never the shot. It’s everything before and after – the months of preparation, the hours of tracking, the split-second decisions, the lessons from failed attempts, the campfire conversations, the stories passed down. Over the years, I’ve seen seasons change. Herds migrate differently. Rainfall shift. Predators adapt. I’ve seen what happens when conservation is handled poorly – and what happens when it’s handled well. Ethical hunting, when practiced responsibly, supports anti-poaching initiatives, funds habitat preservation, and sustains local communities. This hunt – harvesting that 45-inch buffalo – was the culmination of years of growth, both as a hunter and as a human. But it wasn’t an ending. If anything, it renewed my sense of responsibility: to do more, to give back, and to protect the wild places that have given me so much.

Final Thoughts 

What we take from the land must always be matched by what we give. And as I look back on this unforgettable adventure in Kamala, I carry more than just a trophy. I carry a story of pursuit, partnership, and profound respect – for the animal, the people, and the place. This memory – etched in dust, smoke, and stars – is one I will revisit often. And when I do, I’ll hear the wind over the ridge, feel the weight of the rifle in my hands, and remember the stillness that came after the shot. A lifetime memory, made once again in my favorite country: South Africa.

Chapter Nine

Mauling at SHangani

One of the safari booking agents we used to work with sent us a Spanish hunter who spends most of the year in Mexico. He is Venancio Ruis Corbella and he is a fine gentleman of the old school. I guided Venancio on his first safari and also on his second, when he brought his three children with him. It was an absolute pleasure initiating Venancio and his polite, well-behaved children into African hunting.

Venancio’s third safari was booked for leopard. I was already committed for the period that Venancio had allocated himself to try for the leopard, so I contracted my brother Sean to do the hunt. Sean is nine years my junior and a well-respected professional hunter. Like me, he lives to outwit the big cats and he has built himself a good solid reputation for getting the job done. Fortunately he has, in abundance, the single most important ingredient required by anyone wanting to be a successful PH – the capability for hard work.

Prior to Venancio’s arrival, Sean scouted out our western Matobo areas and identified two large male tracks which were fresh enough to warrant a careful baiting plan. Fate, or Murphy, had a different plan. The day before Venancio arrived I received a telephone call from the headquarters of the De Beers ranch at Shangani – our open plains area 60 miles east of Bulawayo. A marauding leopard had slaughtered three calves in the previous two weeks. The De Beers ranch at Shangani is about 80% open grassland and the other 20% is made up of riverine vegetation and koppie ranges. There are leopards in this area but they are not in the same density of numbers found in the Matobo range. The cats in this Shangani area have an abundant food supply and evidently their gene pool is strong, because the ones we take there are wonderful specimens, well over seven feet in length with massive heads and deep strong chest and shoulders. Their colouring is of the savannah type, much lighter than the Matobo cats and the rosettes are fractured into definite separate marks. But they are big healthy specimens and are beautiful. Each year the ranch gives us two leopards on quota to be taken on our 200 000 acre lease. But De Beers Shangani (Debshan) exists for the purpose of producing beef, and cattle-killing leopard and beef production do not go hand in hand. So we were obliged to take action against the old leopards which had crossed the line, and this cattle killer could not have commenced hostilities at a better time, or so we thought.

Sean and Venancio settled into our beautiful picturesque camp near Wabaai, the majestic giant bald granite dome that rises over a thousand feet up out of the plains. Sean decided to scout the broken koppie area around the Lambamaai section homestead. This was the area where the calves had been taken and Sean wanted to establish at least two positions suitable for a ‘set up’ and hang fresh impala in those spots. Unlike our western Matobo areas, Shangani had abundant impala and part of our safari concession duties was the culling of 200 of these animals per year.

Late in the afternoon on the second day, the ranch tractor driver flagged Sean down on a farm road not far from Lambamaai section. The killer had struck again. A chain of koppies stretches south from the Lambamaai section Manager’s homestead for about three miles. The problem cat had taken the calves and dragged them into this range and eaten them at his leisure, and this appeared to be the case now. The cattle workers had heard anguished bellowing from a cow and on investigating they found the drag mark. It crossed a dirt road and pointed towards the koppies.

There was very little time to get set up properly for the night but Sean knew that this first night after the kill was so important. They had to be ready. The hunters raced to camp to collect the blankets, spotlight, food and other equipment necessary for a night out in the hills. When they arrived at the scene of the crime my brother could see that they were not going to be ready in time. They followed the drag marks and Sean could see that this was no ordinary cat. The splayed pug marks were huge. Sean’s tracker found the calf. It was about three quarters of the way up a small koppie and had been stuffed under a thicket, the crotch and back legs devoured. With the sun dropping quickly and time running out, Sean had to make a decision. He found a small cave in an outcrop of rock, on the same koppie as the kill some 70 yards away. It would have to do as there was no time to erect a proper blind. The hunters quickly scraped out noisy grass and sticks from the hole they had found and camouflaged the mouth as best they could.

Sean uses a listening device to alert him of the leopard’s arrival, and he barely had the microphone hung and wires hidden, when it was time. You cannot be fooling around with a natural kill after nightfall. The leopard has to be nearby, anxious to keep the bushpigs and jackals off his new meal, and finding people around the calf would blow the whole project.

The tracker drove off in the Land Cruiser whilst Venancio and Sean settled in as best they could in the cramped cave. Sean was worried about all their recent noise and activity and the fresh scent they had left near the dead calf.

But it was imperative that they were on the kill this first night, and Sean also knew that this cat had been prowling close to the Lambamaai headquarters for some time. He was used to man-smell.

One thing worried Sean as the bushveld noises settled for night. Once the cat commenced feeding he and Venancio would have to move forward slightly onto an exposed rock platform in order to see the bait clearly. Not good. But there had been no time to set up anything better without chopping, which obviously the hunters wanted to avoid at this late hour. The dice were already thrown, it only remained to see what they were showing. If only Sean knew. At 7.30pm Sean heard low purring and licking noises in his headphones signalling the killer’s arrival at the calf. It then ripped hard at the meat, trying to tear it free from where Sean had wired it to a bush. It was time to move. Slowly, too slowly as it turned out, Venancio and Sean moved into position. These wasted seconds gave the powerful leopard time to pull the calf around to the back of the bush. Sean hit the light but all they could see now was the big cat’s head, eyes flashing green-white through the brush. What to do? Should they wait? Would he come back into the open? Would he leave, now thoroughly educated? Sean decided.

“Go for it Venancio, if you can see a shot at the head or the chest, go for it,” said Sean.

Venancio went for it. The crack of the .375 was met with enraged roars and snarls from the leopard as he spun and whirled in the thicket, Sean fired buckshot into the melee and then the hunters could not see him anymore, but heard the racket clearly. Finally silence. Further down the range of hills baboons barked questioningly into the night.

Venancio was shaking with excitement and quite understandably unsure of his shot. Sean knew my feelings regarding professional hunters following wounded cats at night, so they packed up and drove up to the Lambamaai homestead where they recounted the evening’s events to the manager and placed a telephone call to my home in Bulawayo. We always try to find a back up professional when following wounded cats if at all possible. Sean knew that my own safari was only due to start in two days and in these koppies, with a leopard this size, he needed back up.

But as I said before, the dice were already thrown. My wife and I were at a function at my son’s school and the answering machine picked up Sean’s call. How I wish I had played that machine when we returned home that night, maybe things would have turned out differently.

Sean, his tracker, and Venancio were back at the scene as soon as it was light enough to see the next morning. Venancio was positioned up at the firing position from the night before whilst Sean and his tracker, Milton, approached the bait. I ended up at the scene later that day and I remember the layout clearly. The range of koppies runs north-south, about 120 yards east of a dirt road which runs parallel, also north-south. The calf was about three quarters of the way up one of the koppies. You must realise that these koppies are not clear-cut cones in shape. They are strewn with boulders and brush and flat areas and dips and outcrops. They are irregular. As you walk from the road up toward the calf, the shooting position is on your right, south, at the top of a rocky outcrop about 70 yards away. As you reach the calf, on a flat bench of earth about the size of a dining room table, you are facing east. In front of you, going up, the koppie breaks into two pieces like two giant orange halves upside down. But the crack between the two upside-down oranges is about 20 yards wide and has a small game trail running through it. But rocks, basketball size to refrigerator size to motor car size, are clumped haphazardly all over the place, with bushes often surrounding their base. As you stand at the calf, still looking east towards the gap between the hills, a low wall of stones

and chest high boulders comes down in front of you from the right-hand side, about 30 yards in front.

As Sean and Milton reached the calf they saw the flattened area where the enraged cat had laid waste to the brush and grass. Blood was evident. Sean was armed with a twelve-gauge pump gun loaded with 00 Buckshot. Milton went forward with the droplets of blood and Sean following. The blood trail led into the rocky wall.

There is no pedestal where I am standing. As previously mentioned, the hunter leaves himself open to attack many times in a follow-up. Whether he is bored, or not paying attention for a second, turning around to talk to a tracker, or laying a weapon down on top of a boulder in order to climb that boulder, he is going to be exposed sooner or later, that is the nature of this business. I can see where things went wrong. It is easy to say “you should have done that!” or “I would have done this!”, I have erred many times, but I have been lucky. Sean was not lucky. My brother opted to go left around the end of the low rocky wall. It would be quicker and quieter, and he felt he could cover anything happening on the other side, or he could pick up easily any blood sign on the game trail between the oranges.

But the leopard had not gone far during the night. He was festering in great pain and fury only a few metres away, behind the low wall.

Picture this… Milton is approaching the broken wall, Sean peels left to go around the end of the wall. The leopard is laying hidden in some rocks beyond the wall, the same direction Milton is heading. The leopard turns towards Milton’s noise but now the leopard sees Sean to the front right. He crouches, waits to see if he will be seen. The leopard is now behind, to the right of Sean. If you are right-handed, as my brother is, your barrel is pointing to your front left in the opposite direction from where the hurting cat is laying.

Sean, short like myself at 5’8″, is an extremely powerful individual. He was at his physical peak then as he was representing his country in the game of rugby – a game not well known for its gentleness. But the strongest human being alive cannot win hand-to-hand combat with a one-hundred-and-eighty-five pound fighting machine which has walked for twelve years on its hands, which has never had a beer, a cigarette or a potato. This machine is armed with ten two-inch knives welded to his hands and two-inch canines inside a jaw that can snap the neck of a two hundred pound antelope. It is a fight that will only be won by gunplay. Whether the cat was pressured by the slow approach of the tracker into moving position, or whether the cat decided to take my brother while he had his back to him, we will never know, but Sean heard something behind him and started to turn, but it was too late.

That horrible roaring burp-grunt sounded as the leopard came at Sean and his young rugby reflexes were not enough. The cat was on him before he could swing the shotgun around to the right hand, or offside. Because they were both in a standing position, the leopard went for Sean’s face and throat. In most leopard maulings the victim falls to the ground and the natural sensible thing to do is to roll onto your stomach and try to protect the back of your neck. Most people do this without actually thinking about it.

The problem with this attack was that Sean had fallen against a young sapling which supported him in an upright position. In split seconds he tried to guard his face and the enraged beast took his arm in its mouth and snapped and crushed his left wrist without hesitation. Sean went for the cat’s face with his right fist and that went into the shredding machine too. Sean was desperate now! To this day he remembers clearly the absolute blazing hatred radiating from the yellow eyes of this furious beast. He had to force it away! He was weakening and beginning to feel real fear. This animal was going to kill him! In desperation he began to knee the standing leopard in the stomach. This probably saved his face as the cat immediately dropped its head and bit Sean in the thigh. Where Milton had been standing during those last few seconds no one knows but he eventually snatched up the discarded shotgun and blasted the 00 Buckshot side-on through the animal’s lungs at point blank range. There is no doubt in my mind that this brave action saved my brother’s life.

Sean crumpled down and was in bad shape. Venancio had listened in shock and dismay to the whole ten- or twelve-seconds fight. Shouts and yells all the time overridden by the furious guttural growling from the leopard and nothing at all to be seen. At the shot he yelled questions and made his way down to the bait. Between him and Milton they nursed Sean back down the koppie and drove the short distance to the manager’s home. It was about eight in the morning when my telephone rang.

“Wayne? It’s Clive Swanepoel at Debshan. Your brother has been very badly mauled by a leopard, you need to get hold of MARS (Medical Air Rescue Service) or an ambulance. He is conscious and on his way from Lambamaai to this loc”.

My heart sank.

Sean was picked up by the MARS ambulance at the tar road turnoff to De Beers and rushed to town. Sean’s wife, my wife, and I met him at the hospital. The 90-mile trip had to have been pure torture with no painkillers and the initial numbness of shock wearing off. We saw him laying on an operating table, white with shock, clothes and jeans shredded to pieces and dried blood everywhere. He was grimacing in pain, his lips caked with spittle, and pieces of white bone visible in his fingers. It was very unpleasant.

It took many painful, expensive visits to the doctor to get Sean’s arms and hands back to serviceable condition. He had fractured bones in both wrists, one arm and seven fingers. He had stitches to wounds in the shoulder, abdomen and thigh as well. Steel pins stuck out of the ends of his fingers for a long time.

I went out to the scene with Venancio and Milton to see what had happened to the leopard. At this stage nobody was certain that it still lay where it had fallen after Milton shot it. We went cautiously up to the scene and found the leopard dead. He was an absolute beauty in the prime of his life and weighed 185 pounds. We took photographs but Venancio’s heart was not in it and we cleaned up the area and returned to Bulawayo.

It took Sean several months to become operational again. When he did, he was determined to get back into leopard hunting. He had been plagued with nightmares – the hating eyes and stinking breath woke him night after night. The near-death attack had severely shaken his confidence and he needed to face another follow-up. Needless to say he faced the fire and overcame any nervousness he may have been worrying about. Milton was put forward for an award, which included money, at the Professional Hunters and Safari Operators end-of-year Ball and I was glad that he won it.

The Shangani mauling was not so much a wake-up call to those of us who make a living out of hunting the big cats, but a horrible violent reminder that one day, somewhere far out in the bush, the dice will roll. And there will be no aces.

By Ken Moody

There are many species and places on our planet to hunt. Sheep reside in the snow-capped mountains of British Columbia or the arid Mexican desert. The elusive bongo can be found in the rain forests of central Africa and the whitetail deer just about anywhere in North America. All present their own challenges, but nothing stirs the soul and induces a higher level of anxiety than the pursuit of Cape Buffalo in the thick jess of southern Africa.

Having experienced hundreds of buffalo hunts myself, I can tell you that all the bourbon and testosterone induced rhetoric echoing around the African campfire prior to the pursuit of buffalo is reduced to mere whispers when on the track of a wounded dugga boy. These are the times when talk is, in fact, cheap and cool heads with quick, effective reflexes are required.

Sam was a friend of mine and a great client. Always ready to listen and follow instructions, we had experienced several quality adventures together prior to him bringing his son along on this hunt for buffalo. Josh was the opposite of his old man. Brash and arrogant to a fault, Josh thought himself to be quite the hunter and ballistics expert, often chastising me for shooting an old, slow .470 Nitro while he sported the faster .460 Weatherby. If talk were brain cells, Josh would have been the smartest man alive, but alas, talk from him was just that, mere noise generated from the combination of hot air and limited knowledge regurgitated from his pie hole like a continuous stream of gaseous bullshit. In short, he was a bit much. I could see that Sam had spoiled his son in the way that a father who had started with nothing and, through hard work, built himself into a rich man might do, but pursuing buffalo is a serious endeavor. You cannot talk the buffalo to death.

Prior to every buffalo hunt, I present a hunt brief to clients concerning the dangerous nature of the activity and what is expected from them. Place in line, shot placement, all of it is discussed. Mounting the sticks and facing your first shot on a buffalo is not the time to have questions. Josh listened intently, giving the impression that his verbal shenanigans might merely be youthful exuberance combined with nervous energy. But, of course, his true nature couldn’t control itself. ‘I’m going to be quite disappointed if we don’t get a charge out of my buffalo,’ he snapped as we headed towards the bakkie.

Stopping the procession immediately, I turned directly to Sam and told him that while I appreciated his business and liked him personally, I could not allow the hunt to go forward with a liability like Josh in tow. His son just didn’t seem to get it, and it simply wasn’t worth the risk to take someone so flippant out after buffalo. A quick father/son ‘come to Jesus’ ensued, followed by a contrite apology from the would-be buffalo

hunter.

After discussing the situation with my PH Jaco, we decided to proceed with the caveat that the hunt would be called if Josh showed anything other than a strict adherence to the way we hunt buffalo. I then turned to Josh and reinforced that position and told him he was embarrassing his father and that so far, he hadn’t impressed anyone. There’s a fine line between entertaining clients and allowing them to enjoy themselves and having to impose a reality check upon them when a potentially dangerous situation might occur. Our job is to offer them the protection they need even when they don’t realize they need it, and part of that protection is making sure their heads are right when buffalo is the quarry. Josh affirmed that he knew the gravity of the hunt and its potential danger and that he would fall in line as instructed and not become ‘that guy.’ I slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘then let’s go get your buffalo.’

Moving through the thick entanglements in our area, which bordered the Klaserie, was tiresome. We were heading to a known watering pan deep in the bush, hoping to find the spoor of thirsty buffalo. It was a few miles in from where we left the bakkie, but our pace was brisk as we wanted to get to the water as soon as possible to try and find fresh tracks to follow. Josh had no problems with the pace, youth having a few positive attributes it seemed. As we reached the edge of the brush line which bordered the large watering hole, our tracker held up his hand and pointed off towards the opposite side of the water. ‘Nyati,’ he murmured. We strained in our binos, glassing the areas adjacent to the water before I too heard the distinct sound of an approaching herd. ‘Let’s go,’ whispered Jaco.

We stealthily crept down closer to the water and took up a position which might allow for a shot if a good bull was presented. Jaco got Josh in position while I continued to glass, the slight haze of rising dust beginning to come into view as the herd progressed. Jaco whispered instructions to Josh, whose nervous demeanor became obvious. We weren’t around the campfire anymore. As the herd broke into view, we could see over 100  buffalo marching abreast towards us, their pace quickened by the need ofan early morning drink. Silence fell around us as we froze and waited for a possible encounter.

The low, hushed bellows and sounds of the herd, combined with their large numbers, began to work on the young hunter. I could see his clutch on the stock of the Weatherby tighten, the white knuckled grip unrelenting.  Getting his attention, I smiled at him and gestured with a slightly hidden thumbs up, trying to induce a bit of calm into his nervous disposition. The buffalo closed onto the water hole, most of the herd entering the water and moving out towards the middle. Before long, the water was alive with buffalo, all of them oblivious to our presence. All but one, it seemed. In the back of the herd, an old, lone bull hesitated to approach. Something bothered the elder and he lingered just out of range. We sat motionless as the ‘cat and mouse’ game continued, the bull pacing back and forth, reluctant to join the others. The wind was perfect for us, as we became statues within the copse of downed trees hiding our party.

Eventually, some of the herd began to move out of the water and feed along its edges, the inviting grasses a nice treat after a relaxing bath and drink. We held our position, determined to wait the old bull out, and after 30 minutes or so, he obliged us, sauntering down for his own drink. Jaco slowly placed his hand on Josh’s shoulder, and whispered instructions into his ear. I moved my .470 from a cradled position to the ready in case it was needed. On came the bull. He entered the water and seemed to become relaxed, his previous misgivings apparently gone. When he was at a range of about forty yards, he turned broadside and Jaco opened the sticks to allow Josh to get comfortable with them. I could hear the young hunter breathing, the moment beginning to overwhelm him. Again, Jaco whispered instructions and as the buffalo lowered his head for one last drink…BOOM went the .460.

The thunderous departure of the large buffalo herd was followed by silence as all contemplated the event. I was sure I’d seen the bullet impact low and back on the bull, and conferring with Jaco confirmed it. Gut shot! We strained our ears to listen for an improbable death bellow, which Jaco and I knew would never materialize, but still, one must listen for it as bullets can do strange things upon impact. Nothing was heard. Josh remained silent as I explained to him the difficulty in tracking the bull in such a large herd, especially as it was now amongst them. We moved from our hiding spot and cautiously circled the large pan to where the bull had lept from the water. We found his track and took it as it joined the herd, the bulk of them moving off in the direction from whence they entered. It was likely going to be a long day.

Our tracker excelled at keeping on the bull’s spoor, the indication of gut here and there proving the track. On we went, a pace mindful of the danger we were likely to face. One mile, two miles, on until lunch when we stopped for a quick bite and water replenishment. At this stage, I spoke again with both Sam and Josh and reiterated the procedures and what to possibly expect. Leading a client into danger without annotating expectations is a disaster waiting to happen. All must know where they are to be and how certain contingencies might be executed. A buffalo charge is controlled chaos. How much control is determined by how much preparation goes into readiness for it.

We took the track back up and found that the wounded bull had separated from the herd. This was a very good thing for a herd will draw a wounded buffalo along with them as they travel. An isolated, gut shot bull will do one of two things; walk aimlessly about until he decides to stop and wait or walk in a direct line to a place he knows and then wait. Once he’s waiting on you, he will again do one of two things; run a mile or so and wait again or charge immediately. Normally, a wounded bull will walk in a ‘fishhook’ fashion and position himself on the flank of his pursuers when he decides to stop. This buffalo didn’t do that.

We stayed on the track as we began to enter a shallow ravine, the tracks taking us directly into its center, forcing a single file approach. I had a bad feeling about not having a flanking gun as the terrain didn’t allow for it, but it was what it was, and we had to negotiate the ravine to get out of it, so onward we pressed. About halfway into the steep-sided ravine, we heard the distinct ‘woof’ which indicated a charge was coming. Through the far side bush, the buffalo burst, straight from the opposite side of the ravine on a line towards our tracker, who was in front. Instinctively, the tracker fell flat to the ground as Jaco raised his rifle to engage. I moved forward to join him as Josh fell to the side, unable to participate. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, went the double rifle duo, me and Jaco unleashing a wall of lead into the beast. BOOM, I fired my remaining barrel, dropping the determined bull with a neck breaking shot just below the chin as Jaco reloaded and put in one more insurance shot. I too, reloaded and, after helping Josh regain his composure, led him forward for one more shot from his .460. Always allow the client the coup if possible.

With the adrenaline subsided and calm restored, Josh sat still by his buffalo, just staring at it for a while before his father joined him in the moment. A muffled conversation was followed by a father’s arm over the shoulder of his son. Buffalo hunting is different. It’s a scary, nerve racking, adrenaline filled adventure that imprints the brain and body with every  known emotion, thus encapsulating every reason we do it. Most of all, buffalo hunting is humbling for that moment of trial exercised from Josh all his previous childish notions and replaced them with the makings of a grownup. In that moment of life and death uncertainty, he became a man. Cape Buffalo it, but it was what it was, and we had to negotiate the ravine to get out of it, so onward we pressed. About halfway into the steep-sided ravine, we heard the distinct ‘woof’ which indicated a charge was coming. Through the far side bush, the buffalo burst, straight from the opposite side of the ravine on a line towards our tracker, who was in front. Instinctively, the tracker fell flat to the ground as Jaco raised his rifle to engage. I moved forward to join him as Josh fell to the side, unable to participate. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, went the double rifle duo, me and Jaco unleashing a wall of lead into the beast. BOOM, I fired my remaining barrel, dropping the determined bull with a neck breaking shot just below the chin as Jaco reloaded and put in one more insurance shot. I too, reloaded and, after helping Josh regain his composure, led him forward for one more shot from his .460. Always allow the client the coup if possible.

With the adrenaline subsided and calm restored, Josh sat still by his buffalo, just staring at it for a while before his father joined him in the moment. A muffled conversation was followed by a father’s arm over the shoulder of his son. Buffalo hunting is different. It’s a scary, nerve racking, adrenaline filled adventure that imprints the brain and body with every known emotion, thus encapsulating every reason we do it. Most of all, buffalo hunting is humbling for that moment of trial exercised from Josh all his previous childish notions and replaced them with the makings of a grownup. In that moment of life and death uncertainty, he became a man.

By Ken Moody

There are myriad things that I love about Africa, but the one thing that I have a near obsession with is Cape Buffalo hunting. Yes, that old, ornery fella who would just as soon snap your neck as eat a bite has caused me many nervous moments. I have hunted hundreds of these beasts in Zimbabwe, Mozambique, and South Africa, and my thrill in pursuing them has never diminished. It’s in my blood. They are, in my opinion, the most dangerous game species to hunt.

Geoff was a repeat client of mine who had hunted with me in South Africa and now felt the desire to pursue buffalo. After a discussion of what we could provide, Geoff decided that the Omay in Zimbabwe was the place for him. Big and wild, the appeal of ‘real’ Africa was a temptation that he could not resist. I explained to him that the Omay buffalo were hunted relentlessly and only needed a hint of human proximity beforeracing away for miles. It would not be an easy hunt as the wildness of the  quarry, combined with the hazards of the terrain, made for difficulties. Difficulties that someone in Geoff’s state of physical readiness might prove impossible, as he was not a fit man.

Geoff and I discussed his fitness, and I urged him to choose another venue, but he was adamant. I relented with the understanding that he would get in shape and prepare for the rigors awaiting him. He was to walk, lose weight, and practice a lot with his rifle. He agreed to the terms, and it was with great anxiety that I met him upon arrival in the area. I was hoping for a slimmer version of the person I had known, so my heart sank when he appeared from the charter flight larger than when he had booked. “We’ve got to get this guy his buffalo in the first day or so or he’ll be too buggered to continue,” Franz, my PH whispered to me as Geoff was being greeted. I nodded in concurrence and off to camp we drove, a nervous pit beginning to develop in my gut.

After conferring with Franz, we decided that given Geoff’s physical state, our best bet was to stay aboard the cruiser as much as we could to minimize the stress on Geoff and allow him to only use his limited energy as needed. This was certainly not our normal mode of operation, but it was the best course of action given the circumstances.

For a few hours in the morning, we drove the various dirt roads of the Omay, hoping to spot buffalo close enough to allow for a short stalk. We needed a break and around 10am, we got one. Rounding a shallow curve, I looked off to my left and spotted a small group of buffalo heading for the low rise of a small hill. I peered through my binos and saw that they were meandering towards the mountains.

“Cows and calves,” I murmured to Franz, who also was in his glass confirming my spot. I suggested to Franz that we dismount and pursue the buff a bit so that Geoff might get a feel for how we hunt them. He agreed and as we closed the doors on the cruiser and looked up at Geoff, who was riding in the back with the trackers, we were greeted with a huge smile. “Did you see them?” he asked excitedly. “See what?” I grinned. Geoff chuckled as he knew we couldn’t have missed them. “It’s just a few cows, but we’re going to stretch our legs a bit and show you how we stalk into buffalo when a proper bull presents himself.”

Finding spoor, we took up the track. I walked behind Geoff to gauge his stamina and to see how quietly he could move. The trackers moved along at a nice pace, sneaking through the bush as we closed on the little herd. Geoff seemed to be moving ok, so we carried on. After a half mile or so, we approached the rise and slowed our movement as we crept closer to the peak. At the top, we peered over and not only saw the cows and calves previously spotted, but the herd of around 200 that they were trailing. Jackpot! The buffalo were all close together in a concealed valley, looking to bed. With a few nice bulls spotted, a first day opportunity might present itself.

“Let’s get to that mountain in the distance,” Franz whispered as he pointed north to the hilltops. “With this wind, they’ll likely move down this valley when they get up again to feed.” I concurred and nodded to Geoff as we all backtracked to the cruiser.

Once aboard, we quickly drove to the base of the mountains and climbed to the best vantage point. From there we could view the valley floor and see the little dark specs of buffalo below. We then rested while our trackers kept a close eye on the herd. It would be hours before they got to their feet again and when they did, we would move to intercept.

A tug on my shirt stirred my sleeping body and in moments, I was up, rubbing the fatigue from my eyes. Looking around, I could see Franz was also waking and Geoff was attempting to lace his boots. It was time to get into action. “They are moving down the valley towards that draw,” I said to Franz as I took the binos from my face. “Yes, and that’s perfect for us,” he replied. “That draw gets narrow and they’ll have to close up to funnel through it. We can set up along the edge and maybe get a bull as he moves through.” We headed back down the mountain, jumped in the cruiser, and moved towards an ambush position along that draw. We’d need a lot of luck, but at least we would be into them. Geoff was all smiles.

We made it into the draw but were startled to find that the buffalo had made it there much quicker than we thought they could. We could hear them walking and feeding, the noise of a buffalo herd on the move unmistakable. We moved deeper into the funnel and once buffalo were spotted, found a nice shooting lane, and got Geoff into position. Franz and I glassed the buffalo as they moved through the gap, but the speed of their movement was rapid, and no clear shot could be provided at this pace. We had to move.

Franz gathered the shooting sticks as I led Geoff back out to a trail that ran parallel to the draw. We then moved north along the trail to try to get in front of the herd, its pace unrelenting. Faster we marched until no sounds of buffalo could be distinguished from the normal sounds of the bush. At that stage, we hooked right and made our way out into the middle of the draw to find a secure shooting position and wait for the buffalo. We were in front of them now, and I could sense that Geoff was troubled. “What happens if they charge?” he asked, an anxious look upon his face. “What will we do?” “Don’t worry Geoff,” I said. “We’re positioned behind this mound of earth for a reason. It offers great cover to shoot from and if things get sticky, we’ll climb up it and be safe. You just concentrate on making the shot.” Geoff visually inspected his surroundings and felt better about the spot we’d placed him in. “Ok,” he said, “just tell me which one to shoot.”

“They’re coming. Looks like two good bulls in front,” Franz whispered. I could hear Geoff’s breathing increase with each step of the buffalo. When the bulls got into range, the one on the left turned broadside and fed away from the other. “Take a nice sight picture and shoot him,” Franz said, directing Geoff’s attention to the bull on the left. I quickly glanced at Geoff to check his posture and disposition. All looked good, his face in the scope, the rifle steady in the sticks.

BOOM went the shot! “Reload,” I said instinctively. As Franz and glassed to the front, the bulls were motionless, neither of them moving, both fully alert and staring in our direction. “Hit him again,” said Franz. BOOM came the second shot! The bulls bolted from the open draw and plunged deep into the bush, disappearing in seconds. Minutes passed and all was quiet, with nothing to indicate that the shots had been true. “How do you feel about your shots?” I asked Geoff, the emotional strain on him obvious. “I think they’re good. I shot him twice right in the middle.” I looked at Franz, who returned a stare of doubt. “What do you mean, in the middle? In the middle of the shoulder?” I inquired. “No, in the middle of the buffalo,” was the response. In the middle meant but one thing: gut shot. “Geoff, couldn’t you see the shoulder? He was perfectly broadside,” I asked. “Yes, I could see it, but I was afraid I’d miss so I shot for the middle to make sure I hit him.” I could see a nervous expression upon his face. The moment had been too big for him and as a result, he had simply fired for the biggest part of the animal he could see. It is a big moment with fears of what could happen dominating an otherwise clear head. The result here with Geoff was likely an angry buffalo, one which Franz and I would have to sort out.

With our trackers in the lead, we took the track in the waning hour of last light. We both knew if we didn’t find the buffalo quickly, we would have a long day come tomorrow. After a few hundred yards, and with light fading, we spotted a small drop of blood that had fallen from the beast upon a wilting leaf. I picked up the leaf and showed it to Geoff and explained that we would need to return at first light and begin what looked like a long, tiring track. I could see a look of sadness come across his face as we turned and began to backtrack to the cruiser, darkness now enveloping the bush. It would be a quiet trip back to camp.

At 6am we were back at the spoor, daylight just breaking through the trees above us. Our trackers moved with speed, the spoor indicating a track reduced to the normal gait of walking buffalo. Hours and miles passed with little sign. By 10am, Geoff began to suffer from his lack of fitness. He was hurting and our constant stops to allow him to recover were costing us valuable time. I pulled one of the trackers to carry Geoff’s rifle and stay with him if he lagged too far behind. We couldn’t leave him along the track, but we also couldn’t stop. A wounded buffalo must be found and dispatched. That is just the way of things.

At 11am, the two bulls separated, the wounded buffalo taking a more southerly direction. We stayed on the track as Geoff’s face continued to grimace. “We are on your buffalo, Geoff,” I said in my best reassuring voice. “I know this is hard and you’re hurting. We are all hurting, but this is the business of buffalo hunting. We must drive on.” Geoff took a drink from his quickly emptying water bottle and just shook his head. He was spent, but at least determined to try and push on. As the midday sun peaked, fresh blood appeared on the ground. We were close. While Franz and I were evaluating the spoor, Geoff spied a bit of blood off to the side of the track. “Here’s some blood!” he yelled. At the sound of Geoff’s thundering voice, the wounded buffalo, which had circled back on the track, emerged from a thicket, and moved with purpose towards us. Two shots from my double and two from Franz struck the buffalo and staggered the beast. We quickly reloaded as the buffalo fell to the ground, a bit of life still left in him. I moved to Geoff and directed him to the thrashing buffalo so that the finishing shots could be his. An inspection of the downed buffalo showed that Geoff had indeed hit the beast with both initial shots, the two holes in the abdomen of the bull just inches apart, right in the middle. For Franz and me, it was all just another day afield pursuing buffalo.