Last year Rigby offered a brand-spanking-new .416 for our Life Member Draw – (all existing and new members went into the draw). Instead of investing in advertising cash, they donated the rifle. Response was tremendous, Rigby recognized this and CEO Marc Newton agreed to donate once again. We’re delighted. And, as they say…there’s more!
Author Scott Perkins and his latest dugga boy taken with
Rigby’s Big Game rifle in the long-proven 416 Rigby caliber.
When I was 12, my dad took me to an Issac Walton League banquet at the Broadmoor hotel in Colorado Springs. While waiting for the banquet feast of wild game from all over the world to open, we stepped into the Abercombe and Fitch store to gaze over the many rifles and shotguns they had on display. A&F catered to the global hunter and we almost felt under-dressed walking into the store wearing a tie and sport coat. Having poured over the many hair raising hunting stories of Africa that were found in the numerous magazines and books that adorned my grandfathers and fathers libraries; I immediately went to the African rifle section to see what all of these shoulder canons were all about. There were some new and highly engraved offerings in the smaller magnums from 338 to 375 along with numerous used doubles from 375 Rimless to 450-400 to 600NE; but the one rifle that caught my eye had a dark walnut stock that had been well oiled over the years and had a few nicks and dings showing it had been used and well care for. The barrel and bolt that had the bluing worn off where a rifle that had been handled and used would show wear and tear. I asked if see that one?
After my father reassured the stolid salesperson that I could be trusted to safely and carefully handle a rifle, I had the opportunity to hold and shoulder an original Big Game in the highly regarded 416 Rigby caliber. If memory serves me correctly, the rifle was made in 1922 and had never been fitted for a scope. I clearly remember my dad saying that the rifle was offered at a price that equated to the average man’s annual salary. That rifle fit me like a glove. The very moment that I sighted down the barrel and held that well-worn pistol grip and forearm in my hands, I closed my eyes and could smell the heat of the day in sub-Saharan Africa that I had read so much about. I knew right then and there that one day I’d do whatever it took to be able to afford to such a fine-working piece of craftsmanship and follow my dream to Africa and hunt dangerous game, namely Cape buffalo. I remember Dad looking at the price tag and telling me that is more than most men make in a year and carefully hand it back to the gentleman.
Flash forward from 1966 to 2016 and I’m wandering around the block-long halls of the Dallas Convention Center surrounded by countless booths of African, North American, and European outfitters with hunting/shooting vendors from around the world. I was in manly-man heaven!
Navigating through the pressing crowds of people I wound my way around through the rows of booths and eventually found the Rigby display. While being introduced and nearly putting his freshly-mended broken arm back in a cast while shaking his hand, I had the great pleasure of meeting and discussing the logistics of acquiring a second generation Big Game Rigby with Marc Newton, Managing Director of Rigby. As soon as Marc returned to the UK following the US hunting convention show circuit, the funds were wired and the order was placed.
Nearly a year later, the US-bound rifle consignment arrived at Rigby’s importer in San Antonio, Texas. I made the 2-hour trip from Houston to the consignee’s office and made my selection. Trust me, it was hard to select just one rifle, as they were all superbly built. I was the second person in the US to take possession of the famed Rigby Big Game. I called my Dad to tell him that, “by Godfry, it took me fifty years, but I finally own a new version of the version of that Rigby rifle that I held over 50 years earlier – the famed 416.” I got the ‘make sure you break the barrel in properly’ lecture and he hoped that my shoulder could handle that big-assed rifle. “I don’t know why you want one of those things…” My dad never sugar-coated anything, but he respected my dream to finally hunt Africa with a Rigby in my hands. All the way I home I shook my head in disbelief that I now owned the same rifle that had not been made on a true Mauser action since 1939.
Having held an original Big Game, the second generation of the famed rifle did not disappoint. The machinists and artisans in the Rigby factory lovingly followed the original blue prints to the smallest of details. I couldn’t wait to get to the range and break in the barrel with factory ammunition. To be perfectly honest, I was not impressed with the accuracy of the factory ammunition offerings that the rifle was proofed with. After using rifles with trigger pulls in 4 pound range, it took me some time to get used to the butter smooth, 2.75lbs trigger pull. Having no take-up or creep, the trigger broke cleanly and exactly at the factory setting and it’s a pleasure to press the trigger and send nearly a quarter of a pound of lead down range. However, the wide, hockey-puck-hard butt pad, which is designed to spread the effect of the felt recoil leaves much to be desired for a slender-built person such as me. That cussed butt pad made shooting the rifle off the bench a punishing ordeal. Not wanting to put layers of coats on the Houston heat and humidity, I had resort to dreaded wussy shoulder pad to diminish the bruising effects from the 58lbs of recoil. For whatever reason, I never feel the 58lbs to 70lbs of recoil when I’m on the shooting sticks with my heavier magnum rifles. I cussed that recoil pad every time I put a round down range, but I got the rifle dialed in with the factory loads that the rifle was proofed with.
Confirming the zero after removing and installing the Recknagel quick release system.
I promised myself to not change the factory recoil pad until the rifle had been properly initiated in Africa. I figured if it was good enough for all the writers I had followed for many years, it would be good enough for me and I just had to man-up.
The groupings were okay, but I knew I could do better with my hand-loads. Using 400 grain Federal Triple Shock (TSX), I worked up a hand-load that will cut the same bullet hole at 75 meters – every time.
Having returned from a very successful Cape buffalo hunt in Mozambique, this skinny hunter is in the process of replacing the original recoil pad with a recoil absorbing model that is more bench friendly for slender-built guys like me!
I first hunted Cape buffalo 15 years ago with my best friend Frank Fowler, in Coutada 10 of the Marromeau hunting district located on the Zambezi River delta in east central Mozambique. Frank and I contracted our new best friend Gordon Stark, co-owner of Nhoro Safaris to guide our first Cape buffalo hunts for us. Gordon and his partner, Chris Gough, run a highly-respected safari company hunting on the best-managed concessions found in Mozambique, Zimbabwe and South Africa. Hopefully they’ll get back to Tanzania this coming year.
My John Robert’s-built Rigby in 416 Rem was my firearm of choice for those first two hunts in Coutada 10; but I always wished I had the classic 416 Rigby in my hands. Frank took his Dakota 416 Rigby and I was quite envious of that rifle and caliber. Compared to my 416 Rem, with the lower chamber pressures, the 416 Rigby is more of a hard push than a sharp crack to shoot. Frank and I love working up handloads for our doubles to replicate what they were originally regulated to and to have the most accurate ammo chambered in any of our shoulder canons.
To say that the swamps of the Zambezi delta ain’t for sissys is an understatement of profound proportions. I’ll always cherish the experience of seeing the awe-inspiring herds of hundreds and hundreds of buffalo splashing through the reeds and the oppressive heat shimmering in the distance as the cattle egrets danced in the wind over the feeding herds of buffalo. Wading through chest deep papyrus reeds and pulling feet out of the black, fetid mud, knowing full well there were large crocs and hippos nearby is an experience I will never forget. Fifteen years is a long time to diminish the relentless torment of our arms and legs to the hordes of hungry tsetse flies and black clouds of mosquitos.
It wasn’t long enough, however, to forget the time we got lost trying cross one of the Zambezi River channels in an overloaded Argo as I was sitting atop a buffalo carcass, in a constant drizzle, no stars or moon, no waypoints on the GPS (after someone who’s initials are Gordon pushed the wrong button) to help us navigate our way back to camp. After two hours of trying to find the crossing, one of Gordon’s trackers told us that the local tracker ‘does not know his way in the dark’. After a long four hours of swatting tsetse flies, skeeters, and three sets of flashlight batteries later, Marco finally found the crossing and we made it back to camp at 2:30 in the morning. We were drenched and totally drained and fell into bed and didn’t stir until noon. Fifteen years wasn’t long enough to forget the three days we spent shivering under rain-saturated rain gear holding palm fronds over our heads as the one and only storm in the entire delta dumped monsoonal rains on us. That storm system would dump on us then drift out over the Indian Ocean long enough for us to hunt a few hours only to return and dump more rain late in the day to end a long day in the bush. The most notable day of C10 hunting memory was my first day in the delta when I nearly died from heat stroke tracking my mortally-wounded bull who just wouldn’t die, in 52C/124F temps with heat indexes in the deadly-to-humans range. I wasn’t about to let monsoon rains, blood sucking tsetse flies or the back-jarring ride and artery cooking temps of engine heat from Argos (intended to be used in the tundra of the Arctic), nor the late season oppressive delta temperatures and a little heat stroke sway Frank and me from our hunts in the delta.
Land Rovers don’t float over axle-deep mud!
I’m very proud of the dugga boys I took on those two hunts in the Zambezi swamps, but I wanted the heavy-bossed, deep curled, well swept-back dugga boys that existed further north in the delta. I wanted the classic buffalo that everyone sees in their minds eyes when they think of a dugga boy. The southern region of the Zambezi delta was very hard-hit during the 17-year Mozambique civil war and those classic Cape buffalo genetics were largely missing as a result of the 300 to 500 buffalo that were shot every week from gunships to feed the troops. The concerted effort by the 14 concession owners for the recovery of the entire ecosystem in the Zambezi delta is something that every game management student should read and follow as the way it’s to be done. It’s a remarkable success story worth the time and effort to learn about.
It took me nearly six years after acquiring my Rigby Big Game to take it to Africa and use it for the dangerous game that the rifle and caliber was intended for. Flying during Covid is not for faint of heart or for those of little patience. Frank and I were supposed to hook up in Atlanta and then continue our journey to Joburg and Beira as the deadly duo our co-workers had dubbed us. Frank’s flight was cancelled
and he couldn’t get to Mozambique until two days after I arrived in camp at Nyati Safaris in Coutada 14. The rustic and well-built Nyati Safaris camp is located on the banks of the Kunguma River.
The setting was photographer’s dreams. The crocs splashing into the water from the banks around camp and the hippo bulls were our nightly entertainment as they fought and bellowed into the early morning hours of first light.
After getting unpacked, we went to the shooting range and confirmed that the Recknagel mounting system left the Swarovski Z6 scope exactly where I left it at my home shooting range located in Divide, Colorado. Not wanting to waste any time waiting on Frank to arrive, the following morning, we quickly finished our breakfast and loaded our gear into the 50-year-old Series Two Land Rover named Elvis. The old Landy is so named because it shakes, rattles and rolls, but it gets you out and back.
We bounced and rocked our way out two hours from camp into the start of the swamps as the morning fog evaporated into steam and oppressive late season, bread-baking heat as the sun rose slowly above the horizon. Note: if there’s a bump, hole or rut in the trail that will rattle your fillings, Gordon will find it. Gordon has this bad habit of looking at the person he’s talking to rather than concentrating on where he’s driving. It makes for an interesting driving experience!
Being late in the dry season, we were able to drive around most of the waterlogged reeds and watch for the flocks of cattle egrets that followed the buffalo. Avoiding the big herds already cooling off in the water, the keen eyes of our trackers saw the cattle egrets feeding on the bugs kicked up by a herd of five dugga boys. After stopping and taking a hard look through the binoculars, we decided to take a closer evaluation. Staying down-wind, we made a two-mile, hour-long stalk to within 60 meters of the five bulls. They had no idea we were there and continued feeding toward us as they headed to the cool mud of the swamps to rest out the heat of the day. Comfortably resting on the sticks, I was able to evaluate all of the bulls except the one bull that immediately caught my eye.
One of the dugga boy’s bosses were completely worn off and the other three were a lateral move to what I had harvested years ago in C10. When the bull in question finally raised his head so I could see his right side, the trigger came off safe and as soon as he turned fully broadside, the Rigby barked in my hands as I chambered another round. He went down like a sack of bricks, yet managed to get back up and take another round before collapsing under a palm tree in an old wallow 25 yards from where he was first shot. Remembering that memorable quip that Gordon Stark coined years ago – bullets are cheap, hospitals are expensive and funerals are sad – two insurance rounds found their marks and my first bull of the hunt was headed to the salt. After six years, my Rigby had finally been properly initiated on the dangerous game and on the continent that it was intended for.
Part of the clean up crew.
Recovered 400gn TSX from the author’s dugga boy.
Arriving in camp two days later, Frank collected a nice bull on his first day of his hunt with his 416. Taking turns on the sticks, Frank took a very nice bull on the last day of our hunt. To date, this one of our best hunts ever; both of us using the venerable 416 Rigby cartridge.
The devastating power of the classic 416 Rigby is undeniable. Having a true Rigby in my hands and hunting buffalo in one of the last remaining truly wild places in Africa, is the thing that fills a young man’s dreams.
Frank Fowler with his second dugga boy taken with his Dakota chambered in 416 Rigby.
From left to right: Frank Fowler, Gordon Stark of Nhoro Safaris, Scott Perkins and the three dugga boys they took using their 416 Rigby rifles.
Written by Neil Harmse
Facing charges
During my bush life, I have always been very careful when dealing with animals that can hurt me, so it is not too often that I find myself in a sticky situation. Once, on a Botswana hunting concession known as Khurunxaraga bordering to the west of Chief’s Island in the Okavango, I found myself hunting with two friends whom I shall call Chris and Vic. It was a hunt that almost ended in disaster.
Chris was the managing partner of a safari operation in Botswana and Vic was a Johannesburg businessman and gun collector. We had taken a general game licence each and two supplementary licences for buffalo. This was in the good old days, when it cost R50 per buffalo. Vic was carrying a Holland and Holland Royal 500/.465 which he had recently bought and wanted to use on his buffalo. He had some packets of Kynoch ammunition that came with the gun. I had my .450 NE Army and Navy double, and Chris had his .375 H&H. More than enough firepower. Against my better judgement, Vic insisted that a tracker we had employed in Maun, whose abilities we did not know, carry a .404… ‘just in case’! We thus set off on our buffalo hunt.
At about 9am, we found fresh tracks at a waterhole and caught up with a group of five bulls in a small clearing. Vic was to have the first shot, so he lined up his Holland. Click… boom! A hang-fire! A bull was hit high on the shoulder – too high for any real structural damage. The bulls turned and ran into the combretum scrub, the wounded one leaving a light, but visible blood trail. Following him in the soft, sandy soil was fairly easy, but every time we caught up with him, he was in stunted scrub mopane or combretum all about chest- to shoulder-high, so all we could see were his legs or sometimes the top of his horns – his vital targets being obscured by the dense bush. He would stand for a while and then run off to another spot. This carried on for a few hours, until everyone was exhausted and very tense. The two trackers had moved quite far ahead and I was on the point of calling them 24 back when a shot went off and they both came running back, shouting that they had shot the buffalo. The tracker with the .404 had spotted the buffalo standing in a partial clearing and had fired at it.
Loot and myself walking through the bush.
On examining the tracks, I found that a second animal had moved in and joined up with the wounded bull – and he was watching our approach. The tracker had shot the wrong buffalo! He could not tell where he had hit it, but there were now two distinct blood spoors. What could more go wrong? We decided to follow the second wounded one, as that spoor was fresher. We had gone about 200m when we spotted the buffalo about 30m ahead. Vic fired and the animal went down, but immediately got up again and turned. Vic and Chris both fired again. The buffalo turned in a circle and dropped, but was not dead and while Vic reloaded, Chris fired again. I was holding my rifle pointing at the buffalo, waiting to see the results of their shots, when I heard branches breaking to my right. The second bull was right behind and charging. I don’t remember aiming my double: I just shot where he looked biggest. My first shot hit him in the chest, but he didn’t even stagger and I thought I had missed him completely. My second shot at about 8m took him just under the eye and he dropped, landing about 2-3m away from me. Fortunately, the first bull was now also down and dead. I had a hell of a job keeping my breakfast down where it should be and had the shakes for about half an hour. This was my second charge, having previously been charged by a leopard. I was becoming a veteran. On later examining the bull, we found that my first shot into the chest had hit the top of the heart, severing the artery, but this had not fazed the bull. He had just kept coming.
I did not handle my third charge with my usual Out of Africa, Robert Redford panache, so I will only mention it briefly. A friend and I were hunting bushpig in the Sabie area of the then Eastern Transvaal (now Mpumalanga). These wily animals only came out of the pine forests and into the banana plantations at night, so we attached a spotlight to a handcarried car battery and went looking for them in the lands bordering the plantations. I was using a borrowed Browning five-shot, auto-loading, 12-bore shotgun loaded with Gevarm aluminium case cartridges in SSG Buckshot.
Our hunt started with Peter, the landowner’s son, and I carrying the guns, one of the farmhands carrying the battery and another the spotlight. Well, the pigs arrived on schedule and the light went on. I fired at a good-sized boar – and then the wheels came off. My shotgun jammed, with the second round halfway in the chamber. The pig adopted a decidedly anti-social attitude and charged – whereupon the battery-bearer dropped his load and headed home as fast as his legs could carry him.
Buffalo in dense thicket.
Standing in the dark with a jammed gun and an angry porker rapidly approaching somewhere ahead is not a good feeling. Peter and I did the wisest thing: we fled. I remember running into and through the plantation and then into the pine forest, being slapped in the face by branches, tripping over logs, roots and other unknown obstacles, all the while hearing the angry grunting and snorting of the enraged pig somewhere in the blackness behind us. Not a good feeling at all. We eventually lost the pig, by which time I had also lost Peter. At this stage, I was also totally lost, not knowing where I was in the forest, nor in which direction the farmhouse lay. I spent a very uncomfortable night, freezing and. thoroughly miserable, waiting for daylight, before I could find my bearings and take the. long walk home. Needless to say, I have never owned another semi-auto shotgun or rifle since, although I still enjoy hunting bushpig when I get the chance. We hunters never learn.
During the mid-1980s I was doing game control on an estate near Malelane, bordering the Kruger National Park. Early one morning I was asked to look for and ‘sort out’ a buffalo 26 which had developed a nasty habit of chasing the workers. Alec van der Post, a nephew of Sir Laurens van der Post and a professional hunter, who was visiting at the time, wanted to share the hunt, so armed with my .375 and his .416 Rigby, we set off to look for the rogue. Petrus, my tracker, found the spoor leading from a banana plantation into a vlei of dense. reeds. The tracks were fresh and we carefully followed the spoor into the reeds. Alec and I kept our eyes on the vegetation, while Petrus tried to determine which way the buffalo was heading. The wind was constantly changing, but we had no choice but to keep on the tracks. Suddenly the bull snorted ahead and broke into a run, deeper into the tangle of reeds.
Petrus then climbed a small tree to try to see what was ahead and indicated that he could see the bull. We slowly inched our way forward for another 10-15m when Petrus again spotted the bull, but we could not make out where he was. Petrus threw a piece of wood towards the buffalo, which again ran off to the left of the faint pathway. We heard him moving and then… silence. The buffalo had stopped and was waiting.
The rogue buffalo shot in dense Lantana thicket.
Petrus then moved forward to climb another tree about 10 paces to our left. He was halfway to it when there was a crashing and snorting and the bull charged straight at him. Through a small clearing in the reeds and undergrowth I took a snapshot, and the bull turned and was gone. My hurried shot had hit him in the throat and he ran out of the reeds into a small island of thick (very thick) lantana scrub and assorted nasty undergrowth. We carefully circled this island, but could not see any tracks of the bull leading out. He was waiting inside the tangle. Alec stationed himself on the path the bull had made on entry. I instructed Petrus to stay with Alec and I moved around to a hippo tunnel leading into the lantana. There was simply no room for two people to manoeuvre in the thicket.
For the benefit of those who have not experienced this type of vegetation, these hippo tunnels are only high enough to crawl or waddle along and the lantana leaves and stalks are as rough as coarse sandpaper, tearing and scratching clothes and skin. Great fun! All I could hope for was to spot the bull before he flattened me. I felt decidedly under-gunned with my .375. Boy, was I scared! But I kept my concentration on the vegetation for any movement. After what seemed like half a lifetime, a small clearing opened a few metres ahead. Once I reached it, I could at least stand upright. A slight movement to one side of the clearing caught my eye. In the shadowy gloom, I could just make out the buffalo waiting… Fortunately, he was facing the direction he had entered, which was away from me. He was no more than 4-5m from where I stood. Very slowly I raised the .375 and, taking careful aim, fired for the brain, killing him instantly.
The animal was a young bull and the reason for his bad temper was a nasty wound and abscess behind his front leg, caused by a 5,56mm NATO bullet which had lodged there. It must have been fired by one of the soldiers on patrols who moved through the area from time to time, keeping check on people and insurgents crossing the border from Mozambique.
Why the buffalo turned from his first charge at Petrus, I cannot say. Perhaps he was a young bull and not one of the old ‘dagga boys’ and maybe my shot hitting him from the side caused him to swing away. I don’t know.
As Alec later put it: ‘This was one of the most tense hunts I have ever had to do.’ I felt the same. However, fresh buffalo steaks and a few cold beers for lunch made it all worthwhile.
To order Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences – the complete book with illustrations, (US $15 excluding S&H) contact Andrew Meyer at andrewisikhova@icloud.com
All around the world, the practice of turning to the courts has increasingly become a tactic used by activists of all kinds to stop practices of which they disapprove. This has been used by anti-fossil fuel activists to stop coal-fired power stations and off-shore seismic surveys in South Africa. Now the animal rights movement has been granted an interdict by the Western Cape High Court to prevent the hunting of Leopard, Black Rhino and elephant in terms of quotas issued by the Department of Forestry, Fisheries and Environment (DFFE).
There is a saying that goes “The Law is an Ass”. Here is the derivation of that phrase:
“This proverbial expression is of English origin and the ass being referred to here is the English colloquial name for a donkey, not the American ‘ass’, which we will leave behind us at this point. Donkeys have a, somewhat unjustified, reputation for obstinance and stupidity that has given us the adjective ‘asinine’. It is the stupidly rigid application of the law that this phrase calls into question.
“It is easy to find reference works and websites that attribute the phrase to Charles Dickens, who put it into print in Oliver Twist, 1838. When Mr Bumble, the unhappy spouse of a domineering wife, is told in court that “…the law supposes that your wife acts under your direction”, replies: “If the law supposes that,” said Mr Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically in both hands, “the law is an ass – a idiot”.
“Whoever the (original) author was, we can be sure it wasn’t Charles Dickens. However, it was Dickens who brought the phrase to the general public. Oliver Twist was an enormous success when it was first published as a serial and has become one of the world’s best-selling novels.”
In a statement on 25 February 2022, announcing hunting quotas, the DFFE said that regulated and sustainable hunting is an important conservation tool in SA as it incentivises the private sector and communities to conserve valuable wildlife species and to participate in wildlife-based land uses, ultimately contributing to the conservation of the country’s biodiversity. Income generated by trophy hunting is especially critical for marginalised and impoverished rural communities.
The DFFE had earmarked ten leopards, ten Black Rhino and 150 elephants for trophy hunters in 2022, but the Humane Society International/Africa (HSI/Africa) went to court to seek an interim interdict to prevent this from happening. In its application for an interdict, the organisation said the Minister of DFFE, Ms Barbara Creecy, did not comply with the consultative process prescribed by the National Environmental Management: Biodiversity Act before making her decision, which meant it was invalid and unlawful.
The matter was complicated by the fact that the Covid-19 pandemic had prevented the issue of hunting quotas for 2021, and these were ‘carried over’ to 2022, which was a point of contention.
HIS/Africa said the economic and conservation benefits of trophy hunting are “materially overstated”, adding: “It is not true to assert that without trophy hunting revenues, conservation in SA would be unfunded. More beneficial, transformational long-term alternatives to the killing of threatened, vulnerable and endangered animals for fun already exist. Everyone has the right to have the environment protected for the benefit of present and future generations, through reasonable legislative and other measures that promote conservation.”
The judge granted the interim interdict, details of which may be found here:
Wildlife Ranching SA, which represents the hunting industry, described the court’s interim interdict as “shocking”.
“Where people have heavily invested and taken the trouble to protect and breed any species, there is no valid reason to interfere with the harvesting of them, especially if that’s done sustainably,” it said.
All this takes me back 33 years to 1989, when the Endangered Wildlife Trust supported two Danish researchers, Hans Hansen and Hanne Lindemann in conducting a black rhino monitoring project in the Pilanesberg National Park. By 1991, they had identified every one of the 34 animals in the population, marked them with ear-notches, and compiled a photo identity handbook for the park rangers. The researchers noted that the sex ratio was increasing in favour of males. The problem here is that the younger males fight for the territories of older males, which usually results in the death of the latter. The fighting also interferes with breeding behaviour, as a result if which fewer calves are born.
In an article in 1992 (Endangered Wildlife 11: 9-12) Hans and Hanne suggested that an old, post-reproductive male be auctioned for hunting, which would have raised a considerable amount of money for rhino research and conservation. This caused a controversy, with the uneducated public, the media and the animal rights people shouting “You can’t kill an endangered species!” While this uninformed squabble continued, the old rhino was killed by another male. In 1992 another old male, the one-eared ‘Van Gogh’ was found in poor condition outside his normal range, and the Parks Board agreed that he could be offered for hunting. The media sprang into action again, causing an outcry, and before hunting permits could be issued, Van Gogh was vulture food, instead of a valuable asset that could have raised much-needed funding.
It is beyond “shocking’ that in 2022 a judge can support animal rights activists in interfering in an activity which is based on hard-won scientific evidence and knowledge about Black Rhino biology and behaviour. All the ten rhinos that the DFFE had on their quota are old, post-reproductive males. Sound management practice makes it advisable to remove these males for the benefit of the populations. By offering them to hunters, significant funds can be raised to assist in management and anti-poaching activities that will benefit Black Rhinos and their custodians. Let’s look at some of the statements made by the judge:
“It is convenient to consider these criteria together. In the event that no interdict is granted pending finalisation of the review proceedings, of the order of 170 animals will be hunted during 2022, their respective trophies mounted by local taxidermists and thereafter exported overseas. The primary beneficiaries of these killings will be the wealthy, foreign hunters who may wish to adorn their homes, mancaves, offices, club houses and the like with the hubristic consequences of their expensive forays into the wilds of southern Africa. If the interdict is granted, those animals will be spared death at the hands of the hunters. The irreparable harm is thus the difference between life and death. It is, to use the vernacular, “a no brainer” in the test for an interdict pendent lite.“
Does this sound like the remarks of an objective, open-minded person charged with making a fair decision about the appropriate management of Black Rhinos?
“And, in any event, as I have said, if the review is unsuccessful, the desire of the fortunate few who can afford to hunt protected animals exclusively for the purpose of transporting their trophies for display overseas will not have been lost, only delayed. So too the much-vaunted inflow of foreign currency into South Africa’s hunting industry.”
The need for surplus Black Rhinos to be removed for sound management reasons does not seem to temper the judge’s apparent animal rightist views, and his clear disdain for ‘wealthy, foreign hunters’. In Namibia such individuals are welcomed with respect and gratitude, for they are in fact ‘conservation hunters’. In this case one is sorely tempted to conclude that the law really is an ass.
Dr John Ledger is a past Director of the Endangered Wildlife Trust, now a consultant, writer and teacher on the environment, energy and wildlife; he is a columnist for the African Hunting Gazette. He lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. John.Ledger@wol.co.za
Steve B. and his Nyala.
By Jim Hensley
It was 16 April 2021, a day that had been in my thoughts for over 25 years. It was special because it was my last day as a detective with the Milwaukee Police Department. I was retiring, and nearly everyone was asking me, “How does it feel?” or “Are you excited?” My response to all of them was, “Honestly, I haven’t even thought about it. I’m too excited about Africa.” This was because two days later, my wife Carol and I, along with our friends, Mike, Nicole, Steve, and Belinda were heading to South Africa… Finally!
We had originally scheduled for May 2020, but Covid-19 happened. We rescheduled for September, hoping it would be OK by then… I was wrong! We optimistically rescheduled once more, and this time the day finally arrived.
We had booked a two-week safari with Chivic African Safaris in the Limpopo Province of South Africa. Carol, Mike, and I had all been to Africa on previous safaris, but this would be the first trip (I’m guessing with many more to come) for Nicole, Steve, and Belinda. Mike, like me, had fallen in love with all things Africa on his first safari, and couldn’t wait to share it with his wife Nicole. Steve told me how, for almost 50 years, he had dreamt of hunting in “The Dark Continent” and jumped at the opportunity to experience it with Belinda. Carol and I couldn’t have been more excited to finally get back to Africa, and this trip we had the added bonus of sharing it with really good friends.
Mike’s number one priority was to hunt a big, mature Cape buffalo bull, with the added pressure of sneaking in close enough for him to use his brand-new double rifle. He also wanted to settle the score with a kudu bull, a game that had begun almost four years earlier on his first safari. Steve simply wanted to “soak everything up” while he was in South Africa, and created a list of plains-game animals to focus on – kudu, gemsbok, springbok, and impala. He was also happy with the age-old adage of, “taking what the bush offers you”.
Belinda enjoying a hike.
Jim and Carol Hensley.
Day 1 began at sunrise, just after breakfast. Steve set off in one direction with thoughts of a big kudu bull standing broadside behind every other mopane tree they passed. He didn’t find his big kudu bull that day, but did have an opportunity at a huge nyala, a blue wildebeest, and a zebra, all of which he passed on, opting to hold out for Africa’s “Grey Ghost”.
Carol and I rode along with Mike and his PH Johan, as they searched for the big bulls that had left the salad-plate sized tracks in the sandy dirt. Christo Joubert, the owner and outfitter of Chivic African Safaris, had secured two special permits for Mike and me, permits for two old Cape buffalo bulls, both of which had to be well beyond their prime, in a Big Five area. There would even be the possibility of seeing and/or encountering all five members of the famous Big Five, which became abundantly clear only an hour and a half into the morning’s hunt.
We were lucky enough to have discovered tracks early in the morning, which appeared to have been left behind by a group of four or five bulls who were no longer with the main herd of buffalo. As we followed the tracks, it seemed as if we were making progress and actually catching up with them. It was around that time when we discovered we were not the only ones who were tracking the bulls. Johan was quick to point out the very fresh lion tracks that were on top of the buffalo tracks we were following. This meant our already dangerous hunt just got even more dangerous and challenging, a detail my lovely wife was very quick to point out! Johan told us Cape buffalo by nature are constantly on edge so that they don’t become the next meal for a pride of lions.
Jim Hensley and his Cape buffalo.
Now, not only did we have to try and sneak in on the buffalo, but we had to do it while lions were trying to do the exact same thing as us. We pressed on, and I thought to myself, “What are the chances?” Frankly, I was torn, thinking about how special it would be to see lions, while at the same time thinking about how that would also negatively impact on our chances of Mike getting a shot at a buffalo… with the added danger factor sprinkled in as well.
It was only about twenty minutes later, while everyone was focused on the buffalo tracks and trying to see a big buffalo bull in the shadows ahead, that movement to my right caught my eyes.
“Lions!” I blurted out, spotting three lions creeping through the long grass only 50 short yards away. There were two males and a female, and they were after the exact same buffalo we were tracking. We all instantly froze. Johan assessed the situation while Carol took as many photos as she could. After a few mesmerizing moments, we quietly headed off to our
left – far off to the left – hoping that we would circle around in front of the buffalo and have them stroll into where we would be waiting for them while the lions continued to do their thing and possibly push them right to us. In theory, it was a great plan, but unfortunately it didn’t pan out for us. As buffalo so often do, the bulls meandered in the other direction, and despite our best efforts, we weren’t able to get close enough for a shot.
As we continued our search for buffalo, we were able to locate a lone bull sleeping underneath a mopane tree, but as we snuck in to within shooting distance, the slight tickling on the backs of our necks told both us and the formerly sleeping buffalo that the wind had changed and was now heading directly towards him. The buffalo took less than a second to get to his feet, and with a snort ran off in the opposite direction. We did what all buffalo hunters seem to do in this type of situation – comment to each other on how close we had come and how great it would’ve been if we had only had one more second! Then we headed out in search of more tracks.
By the end of the day, Mike was able to get on the shooting sticks a couple of times, but unfortunately the old buffalo bulls did not cooperate long enough for him to get a shot off.
A day spent chasing Cape buffalo is never wasted, but this particular day, even without bringing down a buffalo, was incredibly special. Apart from our run-in with the lions, later in the afternoon we rounded a corner and came face-to-face with four rhinos. We took as many photos as we could in a very short time, and then backed away before our “incredible experience” turned into something very different. By the end of the day, we had seen not only all five of the Big Five, but while eating our lunch next to a dam that had many hippos and crocodiles, we ticked the boxes for the Dangerous Seven as well.
Day 2 began much like Day 1, with Mike going for his buffalo bull and Steve setting off in search of his kudu. The difference came when a huge sable bull stepped out in front of Steve. This is when he experienced exactly what the phrase, “taking what the bush offers you” truly means. In a fraction of a second Steve got his rifle onto the shooting sticks and slowly squeezed the trigger. The sable bull, possibly Africa’s most regal and stunning antelope, leaped into the bush, stumbled, and then quickly went down. Steve officially had his first African animal. Johan received a message on his cell phone that simply read, “Steve got one in the salt!” later with a photo of Steve hunkered down behind his sable. Johan had assumed the message referred to a kudu, and the picture of the incredible sable was a pleasant surprise. Steve’s smile matched the arc of the sable’s magnificent horns!
Mike C. and his Cape buffalo.
Steve and Belinda with Steve’s sable.
Meanwhile, Mike was not to be outdone, and setting his double rifle on the shooting sticks, he tried to settle the tiny red dot that was bouncing around in circles on the buffalo’s right shoulder. When the red dot finally settled, Mike squeezed the trigger of the .450 NE. As the old bull bucked and turned to run off, Mike managed to set the rifle back down in time to squeeze off the second trigger before the bull disappeared in the thick bush. Johan and Mike followed the buffalo’s tracks that led into the thickest bush on the property… of course. As they did, the blood trail became easier to follow until they were close enough to see the bull slowing down, walking away through the bush. Mike’s double rifle sounded off again with two more quick shots, and the buffalo was off into the bush yet again. This time the old warrior didn’t go far, and they found him lying on the ground. With one more insurance shot, the buffalo hunt was over, and the picture-taking had begun. The old bull’s bosses were worn smooth, and the horns were wide, exceptionally thick, and heavily marked by countless numbers of fights over the years. Most of the hair on his face was long gone, leaving the look and feel of white-colored sandpaper wrapped underneath the massive set of horns.
We took the next few days to enjoy Africa without looking down the barrel of a rifle, and started by spending a day inside the famous Kruger National Park. Christo’s daughter, Karen, who is married to Johan, is in the park on a regular basis, and she has the unique ability to go exactly where the animals are, and drove us through her favorite spots. By the end of the day we saw just about everything you could imagine as we made our way through the park, from the smallest dung beetle to numerous herds of elephants, including many babies, ending with a pack of wild painted dogs trotting by within a few yards of the truck.
Karen ensured our safari was not just a hunting safari. She took us hiking by an absolutely stunning waterfall, feeding a truly wild hippo, and treating us to an elephant experience where we could be with and feed wild elephants. She also arranged for us to visit one of the local schools that Chivic African Safaris works with, and we were able to distribute things we had brought along for this visit – some school supplies, health care items, and toys for the kids. Karen and the rest of the Chivic team also arranged a surprise birthday party for Mike with an incredible dinner under the stars in a dry riverbed, complete with a tower of cupcakes, hanging lights in the trees and, of course, a campfire.
By the end of our safari, Steve had his incredible sable, a beautiful nyala, and his kudu bull. Mike was finally able to settle his score with a big kudu bull, a great Cape buffalo bull, and a zebra and a nyala. For me, I was very fortunate to also have an incredible buffalo hunt, but that’s a story for another time, perhaps around the evening campfire. In the end, the best part of the trip was being there with my wife and good friends.
For us, every trip to Africa has been such an incredible experience, and the only possible way to make it better is to share it with others, and we were able to do just that on this trip.
Most popular books about hunting in Africa are first-person accounts, a “this happened to me” approach to the telling. Brian Herne’s White Hunters, The Golden Age of African Safaris, meanwhile, takes a different tack. Herne, an accomplished PH in his own right, takes a third-person approach to describing the evolution of the outfitted hunting industry in East Africa, and the influential PHs of the day, from the onset of the professional guiding industry in the late 1890s to the time of his writing, in the early 1990s. The result is a compelling and educational read that makes this one of my personal favourites in African hunting literature.
The research Herne conducted is in compiling this book is impressive; in chronological order, each of the 50 chapters is devoted to a leading figure of the day in the safari world. All the iconic luminaries you’d expect to find are here, from Cunninghame and Ionides to Percival, Hatton, Hunter, Ker, Downey, Selby and more. There are also chapters devoted to PHs who are less well known, but were significant players nonetheless. Their only crime seems to be that they didn’t write about their exploits, or happen to PH for a client who would subsequently write about them.
Other well-known figures appear here, too, many of whom wouldn’t necessarily be associated first with the hunting industry, including noted primatologist Dian Fossey, and George and Joy Adamson, of Born Free fame. You’ll have to read the book to discover their fit.
Several of the more famous clients through the years are covered, too, including Roosevelt, Churchill, King Edward VIII and many Hollywood stars of the day. In fact, as Herne relates, Hollywood film-making was a significant influencer in the hunting industry at various times.
In simplest terms, White Hunters is a history book, but unlike many treatises, this is far from a dry read; Herne clearly understood his audience when he wrote this. Only the highlights of each PH’s career are captured, and that typically includes their most hair-raising encounters with dangerous game. If you like tales of charging lions, buffalo, elephant, leopard and rhino, White Hunters will keep you spellbound.
While Herne has provided a wonderfully thorough timeline of the East African safari business through what he calls its “golden age,” he’s not lamenting about its passage. In fact, in his conclusion he expresses his positivity about the future of hunting, particularly with respect to hunting’s role in the conservation of the wild animals and wild places that are at the very heart of the industry.
There are many books about African hunting that one should read purely for their entertainment value. And while White Hunters is immensely entertaining, you’ll also come away from it with a deeper understanding of the evolution of outfitted hunting and the many characters who helped shape it.
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