Nov 11, 2021 | Hunting Stories, News
By Martin Pieters
The dust swirled in the midday heat of the Zambezi Valley, as we lay motionless behind a small outcrop of black rock that reflected its heat towards us. Shade was sparse apart from a clump of green about 15 meters ahead.
This was directly in line of the two Dagga Boys bedded down in some jesse 40 meters further. Just a small patch of black and a flick of an ear gave them away.
The day had started with a cup of freshly brewed coffee hot off the campfire. The staff were jovial as they loaded the Cruiser with Cokes, a couple of beers for the trip home later that evening, and a whole lot of water. Our ‘scoff box’ was filled with sandwiches and biltong, apples and some crisps – a five-star meal for the field. The shrill screech of a barred owlet broke the pre-dawn silence as we sat enjoying the cool dark morning. My client and good friend had hunted several times with me over the years, and we knew after yesterday’s trek in the hot Zimbabwean sun that today might not be different.
The drive from camp to our chosen area for the day was uneventful in the dark, with the headlights occasionally picking up the darting gleam of a springhare’s eyes as he hopped across the road. About five kilometers from camp we bumped into a young hyena as he casually trotted up the road towards the skinning shed. Hyena are a common menace around camp, attracted by the smell from the boneyard, and often stir up feelings of fear among the staff.
We began to make out the looming hills of the Zambezi escarpment, and a light breeze stirred the leaves of the mopane trees, but steep ravines, hills and a myriad of gullies leading into Lake Kariba turn the wind into a living thing. Mike (not his real name) had pushed himself to the limit over the last several days: long sessions on the tracks of groups of bulls, terrible winds, and one group of irate elephant cows that made us expose our position while on a closing stalk on some buff all made us pay the price, and Mike’s feet were no exception. Large blisters had formed on his left heel. Moleskin and double socks were helping for now, but another one of those days would mean possible complications and an inability to walk long enough to get into position for a shot.
A tap on the roof indicated that Steve, my trusty tracker and good friend of many years had seen something. We stopped and walked quietly towards the waiting crew who were excitedly pointing at a large deep imprint in the mud of a small wallow just off the dirt track.
“Nyathi,” Steven whispered, shaking his ash bag. Small hand gestures, and subdued excited chatter by the staff was all we heard as we slowly walked back to the vehicle to prepare ourselves for the hunt.
We huddled around the vehicle waiting for the darkness to lift enough to see. As the first rays hit, shadows shifted and the bush came alive with the hum of insects, the cooing of doves and distant roar of a lion. I was filled with the joy of doing something I love, thankful for being fortunate to experience the beauty Africa has to offer.
A small whistle alerted me to the whereabouts of my trackers. Steven has mastered the art of mimicking small birds, and we often communicated like this while on the hunt. Steven in the lead, followed by myself and then Mike, with the rest a few meters behind us. Heading west, we picked up freshly imprinted sign behind some soup plate-sized tracks of Dagga Boys a couple of hundred meters further on.
Mike was carrying a .416 loaded with 400-grain ammunition. His initial shot would be a soft, followed by solids if necessary. This is my preferred method when hunting Dagga Boys. I was using a .470 double. Given to me by General Norman Schwarzkopf while hunting together in Northern Botswana in the late nineties, this rifle has a special place in my heart. I have carried it ever since and it has saved my life on a few occasions.
There were two bulls, both huge-bodied buffalo judging by the tracks. It also meant four eyes and four ears, and having hunted this portion of the Zambezi Valley for many years that meant potentially wise old warriors, veterans of many failed stalks. I was sure that the human smell was imprinted in their DNA, and a mere whiff on swirling winds would mean a long day playing cat and mouse.
We had been walking slowly through several small patches of jesse bush when we came to an opening on the side of a low-lying hill. As is common, there is often a lot of seepage into these drainage areas creating, luscious patches of green grass. The tracks led through the grass, leaving freshly chewed snippets of fodder, obvious signs that the buff spent some time here feeding. Cautiously we glassed the thicker brush on either side and ahead, hoping for a glimpse of black among the grey. The wind was good and, being early, the dew made things quiet. The tracks led along an elephant path through a large thicket towards a pan that I had frequented on my last safari. Knowing the area well, I knew the pan was about two kilometers away, secretly nestled deep within some cathedral mopane. There was no road into this portion, and the area was untouched. A yellow-billed hornbill flew close by, hopping down in front of us, catching insects we disturbed from the grass.
Gradually the bush became louder with the sounds of birds, indicating we were getting close to water. Slowing our pace and staying close together, we crept forward until we could see the glimmer of water through the trees. Sweat fogged my lenses. Kneeling, we peered through the fallen trees and branches, we slowly made our way closer until were we at the edge of the waterhole. We picked up the tracks that led around the water and saw noticed that the bulls had ran through the water. Was it the wind? Had they see us? Heard us?
Then Steve pointed to a neat imprint from a lioness. She must have been what we heard early that morning from the truck. A curse under my breath made Mike laugh a little as he noticed the disgust on my face… “Bloody lions,” I said, “we found them first!”
The trackers had perked up a little, walking a little more carefully while sending cautious glances towards the greenery. We followed a good 500 meters and saw that the buff had settled to quick trot, still knocking over small shrubs and showing no sign of calming. We continued for another kilometer till the tracks turned into the hills and slowed to a walk. Beads of sweat were forming on our brows as the sun hit our backs, and a few annoying mopane bees started gathering around our eyes and ears. Glassing up the steep side of the hill, we had a fairly good view of the ridge as well as a few hundred meters to each side. There was only one sure route up and the buff had taken it. A wide ngwasha or elephant path wound its way up the hill, through fallen boulders and across steep gullies formed by many years of torrential rain.
Shouldering our packs we pushed upwards. Every step gave us wonderful views of the escarpment and the river that carved its way through sandstone cliffs to finally spill into Lake Kariba. With each step I tried to picture the terrain ahead. I had hunted this certain range for several years and had some idea of possible springs and decent bedding areas for cranky old buff. Nearing the ridge, we stopped for a breather and took a swig of cool water. Chatting quietly to the crew, we all agreed that the bulls were heading to a steep ravine between two hills, a common resting area for them as we had often found remnants of their dung. If my memory served me right, they had chosen an extremely difficult area for us to approach.
Large hills and gullies made midday winds a nightmare; steep rocky slopes with minimal cover made a stealthy stalk impossible; we needed luck and lot of it. The trick was a combination of stealth and speed. If we took too long, the heat would build up, winds would become fickle, and the buffalo restless. Too fast, and we risked spooking them if they saw us first – odds were definitely in their favor.
We stopped, crouched, and motioned for the rest to do the same. Both Steven and I had heard a sound – ox-peckers – a sure sign that we were close. We scanned the horizon and picked up a few buffalo ahead. They disappeared into the tree line about 300 meters in front. Game on! From this point forward, odds were slightly better as we potentially had a direction and idea of where they were. A short group discussion, and we carefully took positions and started the slow approach to where they could be resting. It was 10 a.m. and the sun was fierce, humidity was high and sweat drenched us. Steven’s back behind his water pack was soaking and my hand felt clammy against the comforting grip of my double.
Meter by meter we crept forward, coming to a stop every time we heard a noise, a rustle or if we had an opening through which we could glass ahead. The tracks led down the side of a ravine through some fallen black rocks that looked exactly like bedded-down buff. The bulls were walking slowly and dragging their hooves – the warmth and heat making them drowsy. They would sleep well, especially after a night of feeding and the fading of adrenalin from their encounter with the lioness.
How wrong could I have been!
I firmly believe that most good trackers that have spent time doing what they love have a sixth sense, and Steven was no exception. His uncanny ability to read the signs and his acute knowledge of the area enabled him to almost pinpoint where an animal would be at a certain time of the day. He froze, slowly crouched down beside the tracks and pointed ahead. Moving to the side and slightly right as he has done on countless hunts, Steven gave me room to scan ahead.
The jumble of fallen branches was enough to hide a fully-grown elephant bull, the intertwined limbs of the ‘shaving-brush combretum’ formed an almost impenetrable wall. Glassing from left to right in a slow arc, I slowly adjusted my binos to be able to see through the wall of green and into the dark shadows behind. A kudu barked in the valley below, and the shrill calls of a few ox-peckers ahead alerted me to the general direction of the buffalo, and I turned slowly around and peered intently towards the fading sounds of these “policemen.”
Mopane bees… It felt like thousands of the annoying little buggers were trying to get into both my ears and eyes. Glancing back, I noticed that I was not the only one bothered, as I saw Mike had the same issue, except one had made its way into his left eye and secreted a fluid that was making it water, temporarily blinding him. Steven took a bottle of water and flushed it out as best he could. A few minutes later we were back on track and with each step, the sound of silence grew as birds and animals alike found shade in which to escape the intense heat.
As I trained my binoculars at a certain discolored spot ahead, my eyes and mind played tricks on me – whatever it was, it was motionless, perhaps a rock, a buttress of roots or a fallen tree. Minutes ticked by and just as I was about to look elsewhere, a small movement made me hit the brakes. I stared fixedlythrough the brilliant optics of my 10×42 binos for what seemed like forever, when I saw it again… An ever so slight movement. My eyes adjusted, I tweaked the optics and wham!
The gentle flick of an ear!
The bulls were bedded down about 40 meters ahead and currently everything was in our favor. The wind was good, cover was ample where we lay motionless and, most importantly, we had seen them first. My heart beat a little faster and I could feel a small rush of adrenalin. They say this is a fight or flight reaction, and we were definitely in it for the fight.
No matter how many times I find myself in a similar position, the feeling always surfaces – it’s one of the reasons we do what we do. It’s not about shooting off a truck, sitting at a waterhole or in a machan. I am talking about the freedom of hunting large, unspoilt areas of the Dark Continent, about pitting oneself against a worthy adversary in his own back yard.
Judging from their position, the buff would begin to feel the heat on their huge, mud-caked bodies and might shift slightly, giving us a better opportunity for a shot or a better approach, or a glimpse at their horns. Old and solid, nothing beats a buffalo trophy than age.
Time went by and still we sat. Bees buzzed incessantly around our moist eyes. I felt dehydrated and my tongue felt thick. I was sure Mike felt the same and slowly pushed a half-empty bottle of tepid water towards him, careful not to make sudden movements or any noise. Startled ox peckers flew up as one of the bulls pushed his heavy body to his feet, and the small patch of black tuned into a behemoth of muscle as he stepped briefly into a small opening and further into the thick safety of cover.
Mike had his rifle ready, shouldered with the safety off, and knelt down. He preferred at that range to shoot freehand. I had hunted enough with him to know his abilities and was very comfortable with his skills. The fleeting glimpse did not allow enough time for an accurate trophy judgment from me or for a shot by Mike. But the silent message between us simply translated as “amazing!”
Then the other buff decided to join him and we heard some small twigs snap as he rose from his position. We were not so lucky this time as this bull walked directly away from us giving us a look at his tail or what was left of it. A small stump, sheared off about a foot from his anus was all that remained, totally healed and almost comical as it moved from side to side in a futile attempt to brush the biting flies from his flanks. He too disappeared from sight, leaving us huddled in the half-shade calculating our next move. Effort, our water bearer and assistant tracker to Steven, whispered in excitement:
“They are both big, bwana, especially the first one, did you see how fat he was… so much meat.” I was amused by his simple idea of a trophy – horns were great but they did not taste nice!
Steve threw an angry glace at Effort and mouthed something in Tonga that made Effort bite his lip and step back slightly. Pecking order is common on the hunting team, and every now and then Steven needed to show who was boss.
The wind was still in our favor as we moved back a little to the shade of a pod mahogany tree. These trees have an iridescent green hue at this time of the year and are one of the only large tree species with fresh new leaves. After some cool water to drink we were ready to go. A few words to Mike about the condition of his blister and a thumbs-up from him was a huge relief to us all. The sky was cloudless except for distant balls of puffy white over the escarpment towards the lake, and the only movement was the slow tumbling of a bateleur eagle in the thermals.
It was now 11.30 and we had been motionless for some time. To our left and down a steep embankment, was a major river, currently, wide, sandy and mostly dry. A few small pools had formed in some of the rocky portions and in areas where the water during the rainy season had cut away at the bank to form deep hollows. In some there were still had small fish in the oxygen-depleted muddy water, and were devoured by gathering maribou storks and fish eagles. To our right was an open patch of sparse woodland, dotted with outcrops of jagged black rock. About seven kilometers behind us was the vehicle. Ahead lay our quarry, two battle-worn buffalo, each armed with memories of previous encounters, cunning, and potentially deadly.
Standing into a semi-crouch, trying hard to keep our heads down, we grouped together and took our positions. Steven gripped the shooting sticks, shouldered his batonga axe and edged forward. Stepping in each other’s footprints to lesson any noise, we crouched, crawled and slid slowly forward, stopping every few meters to check ahead.
The acrid buffalo smell was strong. A fresh pile of light green dung with hundreds of tiny flies showed where one of them had bedded down.
Piles of dry dung littered the sandy patches below the low overhanging branches of the jesse. With lots of fresh water that trickled out from the rocks below to form a natural pool, the area was a wonderful cover.
The hair on the back of my neck pricked up as a cool breeze hit my sweat-drenched collar. The wind was shifting as was typical in the valley during the heat of the day, and the odds would be shortly in favor of our quarry. We were safe for now as our scent would be carried over them… once down in their domain, this might not be the case. Drying our hands on our shorts, we firmed our grip on our rifles, checked sights and safeties for any irregularities, and moved forward as one, doubled over like “U” bolts, ducking and weaving our way slowly through the branches and vines.
Steven knelt. We followed suit and my right knee clicked loudly. It sounded like a gunshot to me, but no one looked my way. I stared ahead. In a mass of vegetation, with grey and black shadows and rocks, 15 meters ahead lay a solid mound of black, facing away, with large worn horns splayed out on either side of his head. A torn ear and heavily scarred back was the result of a narrow encounter with his arch-enemy and the reason he had lost his tail. Slightly ahead lay his companion, another huge-bodied, almost hairless old bull.
Both were well beyond prime.
Although I had a pretty decent view of the buffalo to the right, it would have to be taken while he was lying down. Mike had branches blocking his sight picture, and could not move without the bull seeing him – we wanted close, but perhaps this was too close! Finding ourselves between a rock and a hard place, we attempted to flatten ourselves further into the ground while the trackers behind blended into the foliage.
The bull on the left shifted forward a little and went out of sight. The remaining bull rocked himself to his feet and vanished, leaving us slightly relieved. We decided to walk down a small game path towards the water. It took us over 20 minutes to reach the pool to have a quick drink.
The rustling of bushes in front quickly alerted us. I could see the crew on edge, every single muscle frozen. We could see the movement of branches and leaves about 40 meters ahead, moving violently. A crack of a branch echoed through the valley and silence was all that remained.
Minutes ticked by, not a soul moved.
The faint sound of a hoof clicking on a rock gave their position away – they were on the move, heading down towards the scrub mopane below.
Standing up and stretching, I attempted to get the bloodflow back to my left leg which had gone numb, checked my sights and safety, and motioned for Steve to pick up the fresh tracks. Disturbed mud and water still flowed into the pool left by one of the bulls that had taken a moment to wallow in some rather inviting locally produced ‘sunscreen’. Buffalo, especially the old bulls, love to cover their bodies with soothing mud, which gives them protection from biting insects. When the mud dries it eventually peels off, taking with it the majority of the remaining hair, leaving them almost bald and more grey than black.
Picking our way through fallen boulders and piled-up debris, we inched ahead to where the cliffs on either side were steep and impassable. The base of the cliffs were covered with the white markings of a thousand carmine bee eaters, the beautiful stunningly red-colored birds that live in colonies and nest in holes created in steep river banks, but at this time of the year there none as they had already left this part of Zimbabwe.
As we carefully rounded the bend in the river we saw a small herd of elephant cows and calves making their way through the mopane towards the pool of water below.
The arrival of the elephant posed a small problem as they lay directly in our path, and if they saw, heard or smelt us, they would gather together for protection and perhaps send out a few warning trumpets, and our hunt would be over for the day.
We backtracked out of sight and around the river bend to give them space, and headed up the tangled slope and away from the river and the elephant, using our hands for leverage and helping each other through difficult sections. We finally cleared the crest, and peering over the edge we could see the elephant slightly to our left.
About 200 meters ahead we focused our attention at the confluence of two. Scanning left and right, we could see no movement and had to assume that our quarry was there. We had a couple of options: each came with its own set of problems.
We could carry on in the heat of the day, attempt an approach and hope for a clear shot in the thick stuff, or we could wait it out for the cool of the evening when they would get up and feed.
Option 1 gave them the edge as they were safely and securely bedded down, ears, eyes and nostrils on high alert. We had seen both bulls, so trophy judgment was not on our minds.
Option 2 came with a whole set of new complications. They could bed down till it was too dark to shoot, they could feed into a position with a poor approach, or, if left too late, we would be out here after dark trying to make our way back to the truck through areas that were difficult enough to negotiate during daylight.
We quickly ran through the pros and cons of both options and agreed unanimously that it was now or never.
Making a small semi-circle to keep cover and to refrain from exposing ourselves on the ridge, we kept low and slightly behind a rocky outcrop. The sun was past its zenith and making its slow arc westwards to the distant blue of the faraway hills. Motioning for the rest of the crew to remain on the ridge and out of sight, I removed a radio from the pack and handed it to Effort in case we were separated during the final approach. I took a swig of water and followed Steve.
The three of us moved as one down the sparsely covered hillside, our eyes wary for any resting francolin or other game animals that could reveal our position, and alert the bulls.
Reaching the lower portion of the ridge, where the open bush met the thickness of the riverine vegetation, we stopped to listen. The raucous call of a grey lourie, the “go-away bird” echoed around us as he flew from his vantage point to another position.
Still, silence all around us. Perhaps they had moved further on…
It was 3.45 and as the heat lessened, birds started their cacophony. This would be to our advantage.
Moving forward on hands and knees we snaked our way into the undergrowth, brushing away dry leaves, extra careful not to allow any dirt to soil our barrels. Head down, I almost bumped headfirst into Steve. He had come to a halt, pointing to a dark mass. Once he was certain I had identified what he had seen, he moved beside Mike and myself, allowing us ample room for any possible action.
The buffalo was so close we could hear him breathe; binoculars were only necessary to get the correct position of his body, and to make sure we had a clear shot devoid of branches that could deflect the first round. He was standing, facing slightly away, not the most ideal angle given that a follow-up shot by Mike or myself would be impossible with the cover he had anchored himself in.
Mike shouldered his rifle, his right thumb eased the safety into fire position, and he hunched forward to absorb the recoil. It felt as if time had frozen. “Shoot,” I whispered.
I could see the white of his knuckles as he squeezed the grip on his rifle and carefully moved his index finger behind the trigger guard, to a slow, almost methodical pressure on the trigger… and baam!
The recoil knocked Mike back off his haunches, but this did not stop him ejecting the spent cartridge and closing the bolt face on another round, and at the same time I saw the strike of the bullet as dust flew up off the bull’s flank.
Despite his bulk, the bull did not show that he had been hit; on the contrary, he spun around and crashed through the brush following the thundering sounds of his partner as if nothing had happened. The crashing continued for a short while and then all was quiet. Dust rose up from the bush and slowly drifted towards us, slowly dissipating
I asked, as was customary how Mike felt about his shot. “Good,” he said, “real good.”
We smoked a cigarette as we looked for sign, when a shrill whistle had us move towards Steve where he pointed to a spot of blood on a leaf. Both of us were loaded with solids, ideal for this type of situation.
Ahead and about three feet or so up from the ground, smeared on the trunk of a young tree was blood, still sticky. We picked up the spoor of the running bulls, careful to watch out for sign of one of them faltering or changing direction. After 100 meters they were still together but slowing down. We found more blood, not large quantities given that the quartering away shot would possibly not have exited. A little further on, and the wounded bull veered left, on a completely different angle to his buddy and slowed down to a trot. We stopped briefly to make sure he had not looped around again, but found that they had definitely separated and we were not far behind.
Now, knowing that we had one target, we could relax a little in the knowledge that the buffalo we would see at the end of these tracks was Mike’s bull.
Cautious, totally focused on what lay ahead, we had time on our hands so no need to rush. Steven continually turned his head left and right, up and down, glancing into the brush ahead to pick up movement or color.
Then the brush seemed to explode ahead of us as a mass of angry muscle burst through, sending dust and sticks flying in all directions. Steve was gone as Mike and I stood shoulder to shoulder, shocked at the ferocity and speed of the charge. Coming towards us, head held high, specks of blood, saliva and fury spewed from the bull’s widened nostrils. Eyes white and wide open, he was like a black avalanche of hatred from years of evading hunters, lions, poachers and drought.
He barged his way through the bush across gullies, taking down small saplings, and finally came to a sudden stop as his body weakened. Then he veered left and circled slightly back to rest and listen.
In front of him and very close he heard them, a breaking twig, and the sound of something unnatural brush against a branch. Then he saw them. Hatred swelled inside him, the pain in his side worsened and the foreign taste of blood in his mouth and nostrils infuriated him.
He launched himself forward, his huge worn curved horns tearing through the leaves and brush, his solid dome of a boss protecting his head.
He had timed it perfectly. His enemy stood barely meters away. He lowered his head so he could smash and hook them. But his lowered head obscured his vision for a split second and at this moment, both rifles barked out in succession.
Mike’s shot hit the bull squarely above the boss, through dense neck muscle, and he stumbled. The stoic old warrior collapsed in a mass of dust barely a few meters from where we stood.
We stepped back into the shade to admire this wonderful animal, and I moved away from Mike a little to give him room to set his emotions free.
The loud chatter and back slapping from the crew that appeared out of nowhere to take their place alongside Mike and his buffalo, was gratifying as each of them individually showed the bull respect.
A look at the bull showed that Mike’s shot had hit him correctly, but given the angle had possibly changed course and ended up missing the vitals.
With a more than 40” spread and massive worn bosses, the tips were all but gone showing his age – a bull with character. He bore the scars from hyena and lion as well as from a poacher’s spear.
Mike was over the moon.
As time was against us and we still had a lot of work to do, we took some pictures as quickly as we could, to be proudly displayed in a far-off land in a framed photograph, to be gazed upon by Mike’s children and grandchildren.
Mike wanted a European mount so we removed the head, and the trackers gutted the bull and tried to cover him as best possible with leaves and branches. We would have to return in the morning, and as it was, we would be walking back in the dark. Steven shouldered the massive head, and using his axe, balanced it on his shoulders and proceeded to make his way to the vehicle.
It had been a long day and the thrill of the hunt was replaced by exhaustion. Weary legs carried us home. I was not sure about Mike, but I could already taste the cold beer that waited in the cooler. The last several hundred meters was in darkness.
Finally, in the starlight, we saw my waiting Land Cruiser.
My respect for Mike was huge. After all he was 77.
Nov 11, 2021 | News
You have probably heard some environmental activists going on about how air travel is ‘bad’ because it might cause global warming? And were you starting to think that perhaps your trip to Africa to hunt on the great continent was a bit of a naughty thing to do? Forget it! The World’s leaders in their hundreds and delegates in their thousands recently flew from all around the globe to Glasgow in Scotland to attend a conference on how to fight climate change. As they are clearly not worried about the impact of their air travel, why should you be?
The leader of the free world, President Joe Biden, scored top marks for his aviation achievements. He flew to Glasgow via Rome to attend a meeting of the G20 countries and to have a word with the Pope. Now President Biden does not travel light, with an overnight bag. No siree!
President Joe flies in Air Force One, a highly customised Boeing 747 airliner called the VC-25A. The aircraft carries a crew of 26, along with roughly 70 passengers including the President, government officials, Secret Service agents, and others guests. The 4,000-square-foot space in the VC-25A’s cabin allows the aircraft to function as a ‘flying White House’ with the ability to run a country from 40,000 feet.
Other upgrades to Air Force One include: midair-refueling capability; missile-defence systems; electronic countermeasure defence systems; an operating room; the ability survive the electromagnetic pulse emitted from a nuclear detonation; and the communications capabilities to manage a wartime crisis from anywhere in the world. The VC-25A allegedly costs $206,000 an hour to operate, including fuel, flight consumables, and maintenance. Wow!
But hang on here; there are actually two identical Air Force Ones, and both of them flew to Scotland via Rome for the COP 26 meeting! The President, Mrs Biden and their top aides flew in one aircraft, while the other one went along as a ‘spare’. But wait, there is lots more heavy metal taking to the skies for this Presidential trip to help save the world from its ‘climate crisis’.
When Joe gets to his destination he gets to travel short distances by air in a big Sikorsky helicopter, called Marine One. On the ground, he travels in a massive armoured limousine, called ‘The Beast’. Word has it that two, maybe three Marine One helicopters went along to Rome and Glasgow, while there are two identical ‘Beats’, one that carries the President and the other one that is a decoy. The helicopters, Beasts and numerous other motorised hardware are transported in two massive Boeing C-17A Globemaster III four-engined US Air Force transport aircraft. That’s FOUR huge e aircraft to get the President of the USA to Glasgow to help save the world from its looming catastrophe, caused (they say) by naughty people burning fossil fuel!
Do you wonder how much fossil fuel was burnt by those four big jet aircraft making the round trip from the USA via Rome to Glasgow and back again? A few clever folks have added it up, but I am not going to tell you here, because it will make your eyes water!
Each ‘Beast’ presidential limos is a heavy-duty armoured vehicles built on a General Motors commercial truck platform with a Cadillac body. These monsters feature everything from full-ballistic protection to an on-board cache of blood for the President in case of a medical emergency. Each vehicle weighs around 20,000 pounds (nine tons), is fitted with a 5-litre diesel engine and gets about 8 miles per gallon of (fossil) fuel.
When President Biden went to say hello to the Pope in Rome, his motorcade was 85-cars long. As well as the two Beasts (one a decoy), and a large hi-tech surveillance and monitoring vehicle on what looked like a huge Hummer body, it was comprised of gas-guzzling Chevrolet Suburban SUVs, and famously thirsty Alfa Romeo cars driven by Italian police. During that short visit to see Pope Francis, the President of the USA and leader of the Catholic Church discussed climate change. Really.
Meanwhile, many world leaders and celebrities flew into Scotland in private jets from all corners of the earth, According to The Times (11 November 2021):
“About 400 private jets will fly into Glasgow for the climate talks, prompting accusations of hypocrisy against world leaders and captains of industry. Jeff Bezos, the founder of Amazon, led the parade in his £48 million Gulf Stream, with the Prince of Wales, Prince Albert of Monaco and dozens of ‘green-minded chief executives also arriving by private plane.
“A Dassault Falcon 8X belonging to the royal family of Monaco was seen arriving in Edinburgh yesterday, as was a Falcon 7X belonging to the government of Namibia. President Buhari of Nigeria disembarked from his Nigerian air force jet at Glasgow. Planes also arrived in Glasgow from Ukraine, Pakistan, Armenia, South Korea, Australia, India, Rwanda, and Angola — none of which usually have scheduled flights to the airport.”
It has been variously estimated that between 30 and 40,000 delegates registered for the COP26 Conference in Glasgow. The word ‘COP’ stands for ‘Conference of the Parties’, these being the governments which have signed the UN Framework Convention on Climate Change (UNFCCC). The COP brings these signatory governments together once a year to discuss how to jointly address climate change. The conferences are attended by world leaders, ministers, and negotiators but also by representatives from civil society, business, international organizations, and the media.
The COP is hosted by a different country each year and the first such meeting – ‘COP1’ – took place in Berlin, Germany in 1995. COP26 is the 26th climate change COP and is hosted by the UK in partnership with Italy. Significantly, the Presidents of China and Russia did not attend COP26. China is by far the world’s largest emitter of Carbon Dioxide (about 27%). By contrast, the UK and South Africa each produce about 1% of global CO2 emissions.
For 26 years these COP meetings have made not the slightest difference to ‘fighting climate change’. In fact, when you really look into the matter carefully, there is no evidence that Carbon Dioxide from burning fossil fuels has anything more than a very small influence on the Earth’s climate. Those scare stories of increasing storms, hurricanes, floods, wildfires, rising seas, droughts and the like do not stand up to careful scrutiny – they are exaggerations and downright lies by politicians, climate activists, the media and those who stand to make lots of money from the ‘green energy’ industry.
So if anyone has the nerve to criticize you for flying to Africa to hunt, I know of two quite short word you can respond to them with. Your hunt in Africa will bring tangible benefits to your hosts and the communities in which they operate. Real benefits to African people, not the false and meaningless words of those arrogant jet-set world leaders and virtue-signalling celebrities and the other 30,000 plus Carbon Dioxide-exhaling delegates in Glasgow.
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
Nov 11, 2021 | Hunting Stories, News
By Peter Feuerle
The leopard cannot be seen if he does not want to be seen, and that makes hunting him the perfect hunt. If you want a realistic chance to shoot a leopard, you must make him come to you, which means hunting over bait, or following a pack of hounds.
An occasional chance encounter does happen – but getting a shot this way is a gift of the hunting gods and never proof of your own skill or determination. My chance encounter for a leopard was in Namibia a good many years ago. I was actually looking for a cheetah, although then (as now) cheetahs could not be imported into the United States. In a fit of vanity, I wanted to be able to brag that I hunted all three of Africa’ s big cats. As it turned out, my PH Fred Bezuidenhout and I could not find a cheetah, despite mile upon mile of patrolling and glassing the wide-open, rough and treeless terrain. Then one day, accompanied by the land owner, we saw three spotted cats calmly amble up a close-by hillside. Spots they had, except they were leopards, not cheetahs. But the landowner, like ranchers the world over, was no friend of predators, and shouted, “Shoot one, shoot any one of them.” He had permits, so we bailed out of the bakkie, I got on the sticks, let fly at the one trailing behind just before it reached the ridge, and it was down. It was a young male, that I would not have shot but for the rancher’s vocal demand.
This was my third leopard. The other two were on my very first African safari, in each case with spectacular lack of success. My first attempt was over bait in the last few minutes of shooting light. After a few afternoons in the blind, nothing happened except no-shows, so we changed location. At the new spot, hunting at night with artificial light was permitted. I was very optimistic, but the outcome was even worse than the previous attempt.
It had started promisingly enough. In the blind, less than two hours after dark, we heard a cat feeding on the bait, crunching ribs and generally leaving no doubt even to my inexperienced ears that we had a leopard.. My PH, Dean Kendall, slowly turned up the spotlight, and there it stood, broadside, fetchingly illuminated in red. It glimpsed in our direction and slunk away before I could get my act together. Seeing a leopard in the wild for the first time does interesting things to one‘s composure!
But nothing strengthens one’s resolve like a little humiliation. So I booked another hunt with Dean, in the Dande safari area of Zimbabwe, where using lights was not permitted. It is mostly hilly woodland, and probably had been for millions of years, judging from the large grove of petrified wood that we saw – even entire tree trunks. Perhaps by now the area has become a place for fossil collectors.
Finding the right leopard track in the first place can take days or can happen within hours. One has to distinguish those of a cat from those of a hyena, tell how old the tracks are, or even to determine whether they are from a male or female. When a fresh track is found, generally size of spoor suggests gender, which can be confirmed when a cat is on the bait. You hang a trail camera or two and hope to get a shot of the cat’s rear end. We were lucky, and it did not take us long to find what my team of experts, after spirited debate (how I wished I could understand Shona and Ndebele!) deemed it the right cat.
We still needed bait and I had a good time shooting for the larder, the cats and the camps. We found a suitably shaped tree, in the right place with an optimal distance between it and the blind with a clear shooting lane. Scent trails were laid around the area and clear paths were made to get in and out of the blind noiselessly in the dark – I found that pieces of toilet paper as a guide show up amazingly well by starlight.
My wife Nancy was with us, and as we rolled away, she casually asked, “That big tree branch we cut to clear the shooting lane, what kind of tree was that?”
” Oh, an ebony tree.”
” Stop! Turn around! I want a piece of that wood!” Slight amusement in the bakkie, but this was Africa, and what the lady wants, the lady gets. So we turned around, and our men hacked out a chunk of ebony, the black heartwood, using axes forged from leaf springs and kept sharp. It seemed no rural Matabele male goes out without his axe. Nice, economical swings each hit exactly in the same notch, no undue exertion, letting the steel do the work. I still have that chunk of wood. I drilled a row of half-inch holes in it, and it is now a display rack for decorative wine bottle stoppers.
Dean and I went into the blind around four o’ clock. It was still sweltering from the heat of the day. Two hours till sundown. No talking, no loud swatting of bugs, anxiously watching the sun drop lower and lower. And no sign of a cat. I confess that my tolerance of frustration was tested. But then things came together. The cat showed up while I could still get a decent sight picture and identify the cross hairs against its body. I squeezed the trigger, was blinded by the muzzle flash, and the next thing I knew was Dean slapping me on the back and saying (much more calmly than I felt) “Good shot, Peter”. We waited the proverbial cigarette time, and with our flash lights walked over to the bait site. There on the ground, lay my leopard. Dead.
Buoyed by my success using the classic method of hunting leopard, I decided to try something completely different, a hunt with hounds, something I had done in the North American West for cougar. (The main difference is that in America we may not use baits – everything depends on the tracking ability of your hounds.) I found a hound hunt in Namibia on a cattle ranch not far north of the Naukluft Mountains. That area seems to be a veritable breeding ground for leopards that invade the surrounding countryside. The cattle operation is limited by the nature of the terrain, which is largely flat in the east of the property, while to the west it becomes mountainous and rises to a high escarpment bordering the desert of the Namib. The cattle do not venture into the rough country, so there are no fences in the hunting area.
Mare van der Merwe, one of the owners, was my PH. Our houndsman, Glenn Mel, came all the way from the Eastern Cape, accompanied by a helper and about a dozen tough-looking, noisy, sinewy devils that, it turned out, just loved being cuddled and tried to lick your face if you would let them. On each outing, Glenn would select a dog team of perhaps six or so, and explained that the team had to include distinct specialists: trackers to pick up cold tracks, fast sight hounds to run the cat down once they had spotted it, and bruisers that would hold the cat at bay. I saw later that the trackers actually lost any interest in the cat after it had been brought to bay, preferring to wander around and check out all the interesting scents, while the sight hounds hung around but were content to loudly proclaim to the world that they had won the race.
The first step of the hunt was no different from a hunt over bait. We set up several bait sites, although it took time because the area was large and finding tracks was difficult. The ground was coarse gravel which does not show tracks well, unlike the fine powdery soil I had seen in Zimbabwe. Eventually some of our baits got hit, and then we found the fresh tracks of an encouragingly large cat. Not only that, but Mare said he knew the cat, as its right front paw showed an old scar, possibly the result from pulling out of a leg-hold trap. It was deep but perfectly healed. He said he had actually hunted it but had never been successful.
It was time to let loose the dogs of war, and they didn’t wait around. They started running as soon as they hit the ground, calling out joyfully. Because we expected a long pursuit we stocked up on bottled water, but we were still loading up backpacks when the sound changed and all hell broke out no more than half a mile away. Turned out the cat had gone to ground in a cavern formed by an old rock fall. The hounds were smart enough not to go into the opening – there was something snarling frightfully inside.
We approached at right angles to the cat’s line of sight from the cavern, or rather its line of attack, which promptly came. The cat hurtled through the throng of dogs, turned around, and shot back to its shelter before they could even react.
I had been warned that something like this might happen and had mounted a red dot sight on my rifle. Then I did something that is generally frowned upon. In order to save time the next time around I clicked my safety off. When the next charge came, the red dot was instantly on the cat’s shoulder, no dog was in my sight, I fired, then the cat was back in the cave. But it left a huge splatter of bright red blood on the rock face, and there was no further sound. The leopard, a large male that made the record book, is now a full-body mount in a jumping-up position, with his right front paw stretched out high showing his battle scar. I think I owed that to him. The full emotional impact came later, in replaying the whole drama in my mind.
After that I hunted more leopards, but I have never had the desire to do it again with hounds. I am glad for the experience, and I like dogs. But I think that a leopard does not deserve this humiliation. Call me a sentimental fool. All my subsequent leopard hunts were done in a modified classical method, that is, from a blind over bait, but using artificial illumination or light enhancement.
On one occasion when we checked in the morning, the bait was gone and there were lion tracks. If lions move in, the leopards will decamp. On another occasion, the local game authorities had decreed that, killing a female would carry a US$ 20,000 fine – not a risk to run. We had not been able to reliably determine the cat’s sex, and gave up. Another disappointing situation involved a cat that apparently did not like the location of the bait and paid only short visits. So we un-wired the bait so that the cat could take it somewhere else it preferred. Sure enough, the next morning the bait was gone. We followed tracks and found that a pack of hyenas had ambushed our cat, which had wisely dropped its meal and treed up.
Once we found huge tracks of a brute that patrolled the area but never took any of the baits. I decided that we go after that giant, but in spite of incredible performance by our trackers over two days, we never caught up with it. A problem for today’s hunters is that we tend to run out of time, unlike the legendary hunters of old who could afford weeks or even months.
My latest leopard kill, number four (which will probably be the last one), happened in early 2021 after my eightieth year. We were in a private game conservancy in KwaZulu-Natal. It is rare that South Africa issues leopard permits for export, but the owners of the conservancy has received a “destruction permit” based on the finding by an outside consultancy that the area’s plains-game population could not sustain the number of predators that were found there. So this was basically a cull hunt, though in the owner’s opinion on a far too limited scale.
With Pienaar “Pine” Breytenbach as my PH, I set out. What followed was a circus! Because of Covid-related travel complications I did not bring my own gun but borrowed one from Pine, which carried a thermal imaging device, as we expected all the action to happen at night. We went out diligently in the dark so 1 could practice. We also had a rifle with conventional telescopic sights for daytime work, so I never fired the “night” rifle in the daytime.
When we had a cat on bait and the blind set up, I went into the blind one late afternoon with the “night” rifle, while Pine moved our vehicle a mile or so down the road, to return on foot. But before he got back , with the sun still well above the horizon, our leopard showed up right beneath the bait tree, and calmly stepped forward to inspect the open area between him and my blind – just stood there as if enjoying the view. A thermal imaging device also works in daylight, but my practice shooting had been based on the premise that I would have to use it on1y in the dark. It is a complicated thing, and I did not know which button to push, lever to move, or dial to turn in order to make that thing work in daylight.
So I looked at the cat and it seemed to be looking at me, though of course I was concealed in the blind. I dearly wished I had our “day time” rifle, but that was gone with Pine; you do not wander around an area where the Big Five roam without being suitably armed. After a fairly long while, the cat turned and ambled back into the bush.
I thought I was done, but an hour or so later, now in complete darkness, the cat showed up again to get its meal at last. I had him broadside, picked the wrong reticle, shot and missed, and he calmly slinked down, the way cats do, from the branch down to the ground. But he stayed just long enough so I could change the reticle to the one I had used in our practice sessions, and shot again.
And that was the end of it. The hide was carefully prepared, and I believe that it was offered to the Zulu king as is the traditional local custom.
Like everyone else, I have known for decades that going into the field with unfamiliar equipment is a fool‘s errand, but sometimes the gods favor the fools, in this particular case if they are in their eighties.
