Nov 7, 2019 | Archive, News
By Kyle Ball
M.D. Robin Hurt. Coenrard Vermaack. Gary Kelly. Gordon Mace. Paul Ferreira. Carl Stormanns – professional hunters all, and well-known operators in their respective countries. In any gathering of safari hunters, many men will have either hunted with one or more of these men, or know someone who has.
Nicholas. Dhouglass. Kunze. Joseph. These names may mean little as they are read off the page, but many hunters – and their employers for certain – know that they are the most indispensable and critical members of a safari team. For these men are the trackers.
Raised from an early age in what is rapidly becoming a bygone era, these men, with their uncanny and almost mystical – some would say magical – abilities, have a following among safari hunters that borders on the cult-like.
On safaris in which the client shoots well and kills quickly, the tracker’s job appears minimal to the uninformed, but when the quarry is not hit well and escapes into the surrounding bush, then the tracker’s skill is put to the utmost challenge. For the overwhelming majority of today’s top trackers, their livelihood is guaranteed by their employer on a year around basis, not just during the five to six month safari season each year. These men are full-time employees of the safari company, often times living on their professional’s farm or homestead on a full-time basis, thus ensuring full-time employment and thus full-time access to their professional hunter. This is a win-win situation for all concerned and, ultimately, is a supreme form of recognition of their position as their professional’s “Number One.”
Evaluating the scene of the shot, the tracker takes stock of the clues that have been left – any traces of blood, hair or bone. But, more importantly than those signs, are the tracks of the departing animal.
The ability to track an animal over any terrain is what makes these “magicians of the bushveld” such a pleasure and privilege to watch. To be able to examine a track and deduce whether the animal is running or walking; favoring one side over the other; gaining elevation (indicating strength), or heading for lower ground (indicating weakness). If blood is present, what type of blood (arterial or venous)? All this ultimately points to the actual location of the bullet strike.
Tracking is not only about obvious signs such as tracks on the ground, sun angle, shadows, moisture, and a blood spoor. It is more about becoming totally attuned to the surroundings, especially when tracking dangerous game, and more especially when these animals are wounded. “Reading the bush” when tracking is as vital as obvious signs, and with dangerous game can mean the difference between living and dying. Walking straight into an animal’s personal zone is extremely dangerous, especially with elephant and buffalo, and the ability to read all of the signs to prevent this event from occurring is what sorts out the true trackers as against the mere “spoor followers”. Patience is a vital requirement in these circumstances and is an attribute that these men possess in abundance.
As with tracking, the understanding between the professional hunter and his tracker takes years to develop. In extreme situations such as tracking a wounded dangerous game animal in thick bush, the understanding has to be complete and wordless. Each man has his own function to perform, and each is totally dependent on the other for their very lives. The tracker is completely focused on reading the signs; the professional hunter takes a broader overview of the bush, assessing second by second from every sight, sound, and smell, the proximity of the animal being pursued. The trust between the two is implicit; the tracker is not normally armed; his life depends totally on the skills and courage of his professional hunter. In those follow-up situations, being accompanied by the client (unless he is highly skilled and experienced} often complicates proceedings, as invariably he or she is traumatized and nervous and armed; all-in-all a potentially lethal trifecta. The fewer people in this situation, the better – ideally no more than two.
These are a few of the assessments that a tracker makes as he follows a wounded animal. For these men, it is second nature, a nature that has been with them all of their lives. It is only after a long and arduous tracking job, when the trophy has been secured that their full measure can be fully appreciated.
For Dhouglass Kondile (pronounced Kondelee) – Gordon Mace’s number-one tracker – life began on a farm outside Alicedale in South Africa’s Eastern Cape on 8 August, 1958. He was a member of the Xhosa nation (one of the nine tribes of South Africa). His parents separated and divorced when he was still a baby, and his grandfather Zicina “Jim” Kondile then became responsible for his upbringing. According to African tribal custom, Dhouglass’s grandfather thus became his father.
Jim Kondile was born in the same region in 1889 and died there in 1976 at the age of 87. For his entire working life, Jim lived there and worked for cattle ranchers and sheep farmers. In those days, specialist game ranches were virtually unknown as there was very little value attached to game. Problem game, however, abounded in the area. Bushpigs, caracal, jackals and leopard were the primary offenders and these animals wreaked untold havoc on the farmers in terms of bushpigs damaging fences and the predators destroying calves and lambs. All the farmers employed men to control these animals, and the most successful among them was Jim Kondile.
While Dhouglass was still a boy, he would accompany his grandfather into the bush on the Problem Animal Control (PAC) expeditions which could last for weeks at a time. They were paid a bonus for each problem animal killed. Life in those days was tough, unforgiving and relentless, and thus the earning of these bonuses was vital for the family’s upkeep. Dhouglass was fortunate to have come under the tutelage and watchful eye of Jim Kondile whose entire livelihood was dependent on his skills as a tracker, and for the next ten years the vanishing art of tracking was deeply implanted into the very core of Dhouglass’s soul and psyche.
The upbringing and training of the majority of today’s top trackers parallels that of Dhouglass Kondile. The skills that these men possess are lifelong skills, instilled and reinforced from an early age, and that is why today’s top professional hunters know that tracking cannot be taught in the short term. It is a skill that can only be acquired over the long term, and requires years in the bush to develop into full potential.
Describing the characteristics of their valued trackers, professionals that I have hunted with use words such as “quiet…reserved…respectful… pleasant… possessing a keen sense of humor”. All consider their trackers consummate professionals themselves, and use these attributes to judge all other professionals, both professional hunters and trackers, by the standards they set. Few, if any, attain their lofty status. They are the ultimate “walk the walk” men as against the more normal “talk the talk” men.
And so, to have the opportunity to hunt with these men and witness first hand their incredible abilities is a rare and highly valued privilege.
Two stories come immediately to mind regarding the prowess of these African trackers, Douglass and Joseph: The first one involves Carl Stormann’s tracker – Joseph Manome – a descendant of the famed Zulu tribe.
Early one morning, while hunting kudu in the Limpopo Province of South Africa, an American client wounded a large bull kudu in the front leg – a superficial wound but one that drew blood. As the hunting party began the long and arduous follow up, the client began whining about the “wasted hunting time” that would be expended on this search and the likelihood of it being an unsuccessful event. The professional quickly reminded the client that they had both a professional and a moral imperative to locate and dispatch this wounded trophy animal,. regardless of what was required to accomplish that goal.
The client nonetheless continued whining about “lost” hunting time and finally directly challenged the tracker’s ability to find this slightly wounded animal.
“I’ll bet you $1000 U.S. that you cannot find that kudu,” was his boastful challenge. The professional hunter immediately translated the challenge to Joseph, who upon hearing this, proceeded to make the client comfortable near the safari vehicle, providing food and water from the chop box.
Then Joseph and Carl set off on the spoor. Initially, there were occasional droplets of blood to be found, but the blood soon petered out. The tracking took them over ridges and down valleys; over sand, rocks, and through thickets. This quest continued even through the hottest hours of the midday sun, and still they went on relentlessly. Finally, after seven and a half hours of this dedicated pursuit, Joseph slowly crept over the top of a small ridge and there – partially obscured in the valley brush below – stood the bull kudu. Taking deliberate aim, Carl sent a .300 H&H Magnum softpoint through both shoulders, effectively ending the saga that had consumed the entire hunting day.
Joe, after assessing the bull, immediately oriented himself and then took off with a confident air, walking as directly as the terrain would allow – straight back to where he had left the client nearly eight hours before. As he approached, the client stood up and immediately could see the blood on Joe’s hands, and he knew. He knew that Joseph had taken the scenario from hopeless to joyful as he had accepted the challenge, and through his abilities had successfully achieved a victory from the jaws of defeat. But much more importantly for Joe, he had made the client “put his money where his mouth was” and had vindicated his abilities to track in even the most difficult of scenarios.
The second story revolves around Dhouglass and a buffalo hunt in the jesse bush of Zimbabwe’s famed Zambezi Valley. The hunting team had found fresh buffalo tracks as they had left a waterhole early one July morning. The lone Dagga Boy was returning to thick bush after drinking at a nearby waterhole. As the hunting team entered the thickets, the wind was constant and in their faces.
After approximately two hours of following the spoor, Dhouglass pointed to the ground and glanced at Gordon. They both realized that they had just crossed their own walking track. This meant that the buffalo had circled in an attempt to get downwind of them and determine their exact location.
They continued very slowly on the track. After another ten minutes, they again crossed their own tracks. Silently, the team moved to the safety of a nearby tree to review the situation that they now found themselves in.
By circling, the Dagga Boy knew it was being followed and was preparing an ambush somewhere ahead. If that attack was allowed to be initiated, it would occur suddenly, without warning, and from extremely close quarters. The hunting party had now crossed over the line of safety and had ceded the advantage to the buffalo. To continue further courted disaster. Knowing when to “back off” in a dangerous game situation is what separates the men from the boys.
Do not lose the opportunity to see for yourself, because with each passing year, more and more of these professional trackers are retiring from active safari work, and fewer and fewer younger men are being raised to replace them. Unfortunately, with urbanisation and the lure of a modern lifestyle and job opportunities, there are fewer small villages that in the past have produced the young men who wanted to develop the skills that their fathers and grandfathers possessed. This is the pressing problem for professional hunters.
Meanwhile, these exceptional trackers continue their daily work – quietly; patiently; and professionally as they assist their professional hunters to ensure the safety and success of their clients’ safari adventures.
Despite the evolution of today’s “modern” safaris, they will always remain THE one indispensable part of every safari… for they are the trackers.
Dr. Kyle Ball is a practicing OB-GYN physician in Jackson, Mississippi, who has hunted extensively throughout the US/Canada/Mexico as well as five continents. He is an avid writer, recording his adventures with more than 50 published articles. He is a Life member of SCI; NRA; Alaskan Professional Hunters Association, with Memberships in PHASA; IPHA and DSC.
Nov 1, 2019 | News
By Brooke ChilversLubin
When I first started attending the SCI Convention in Las Vegas the 1980s, we all lived and exhibited together under the same roof, at the old Hilton Hotel near the airport. Its sizable half-moon bar, which PHs called “the office,” recalls the golden age when hunters and conservationists first really joined forces.
Among the hundreds of hunters and outfitters and thousands of hunting clients who roamed the convention, at 6’4” and a bear of a man, Volker Grellmann stood out as the voice of the Namibian safari industry, carrying its message from one association meeting to another: African Chapter SCI, IPHA, APHA, NAPHA, CIC, PHASA, GAME COIN, etc. The furry eyebrows, the impressive beard, the resonating voice sharing common sense and wisdom, Volker was the epitome of Namibian hunting and its acknowledged doyen.
Volker died in hospital in Windhoek following a heart attack on September 16, 2019. “He will be sorely missed by many,” wrote PH Jofie Lamprecht who first met Volker when he was six years old.
How surprised I was to learn that this Namibian citizen (since 1993) was actually born in Wittenberg, Germany, 60 kms north of Leipzig, in 1942. “We children emigrated with our parents to the then South West Africa and arrived in Walvis Bay in December, 1951. My father had been invited by an old school friend to join him in Windhoek in an engineering business,” recounted Volker while happily feeding the throngs of birds that find sanctuary on his beloved Etango Ranch, home since 1996.
“In his tailored safari suit, Volker demanded a presence when walking into a room,” wrote Jofie in e-mails we exchanged over the sad news. “Growing up in his midst, he was always gentle, humble and kind. We would schedule breakfasts, arriving promptly at 9:00, and it was often sunset by the time I left.” Jofie described his mentor as “A man not born in Africa – but its roots having grown deep into his veins. A son, father, grandfather and great-grandfather of Africa.”
Although graced his entire life by the love of nature, Volker actually started out as a furrier and designer. That was the man the lovely city-girl Anke Hinsch, born in Hamburg, married 53 years ago. Her father, an electrical engineer, brought his family to Namibia in 1953.
Together, they joined the safari industry in 1968, starting out part-time as a hunting consultancy. By 1970, they were organizing both ranch and open concession safaris which, for Anke, meant pitching camp in the middle of nowhere and pulling out her mother’s fine china, silver and linens to offer romantic candlelit dinners under African skies for their first safari clients.
In 1972, they registered their own hunting safari company: ANVO for ANke and VOlker. Their motto was, and is: “Conservation through selective Hunting.” This best describes the path of Volker’s lifeline, for he would join the International Professional Hunters’ Association (IPHA) in 1981 and become its Vice President, President-Elect and a Life Member, receiving its Award of Recognition in 1996; Founding Member and Life Member of African Professional Hunters’ Association (APHA); Founder (1974) and past President of Namibia Professional Hunters Association (NAPHA); International SCI Director and Life Member, winning its Outstanding International Professional Award in 1995 and its President’s Award in 1997; and serving on the SWA National Game Committee (1980); the Federation of Namibian Tourism Associations; the Conservancy Association Namibia; the Namibian Academy/Training in Hospitality; the Namatanga Conservancy; and helping create, with the Ministry of Environment and Tourism, a registry for a national Succulent Nursery.
Once big-game concessions were created in 1988, including limited quotas for hippo and crocodile, in Bushmanland and the Caprivi (now called the Zambezi Region), Volker famously began working with the people of Nyae Nyae, forging the way by hiring Ju/’hoansi as hunting guides. His knowledge, understanding and appreciation of San culture are yet another wonderful gift he shared with others.
Already in 1973, Volker began passing on to the next generation of PHs and hunting guides his knowledge of those professions’ special required skills, as creator and then Director and Chief Lecturer at today’s Eagle Rock Professional Hunting Academy Namibia (ERPHAN). He was instrumental in developing the programme’s curriculum, including for previously disadvantaged Namibians, along with the Ministry of Environment and Tourism and the NAPHA Education Committee. To date, there are some 800 graduates.
Around Anke’s wonderful breakfast table, I once asked Volker what makes a successful PH? “A love for nature and wildlife…willingness to serve and work with and for people…. a passion for hunting. Good eyesight. Bodily fitness.” And a successful hunting company? “Minute, detailed planning…well-trained staff…good equipment….reliable vehicles. It’s been proven many times over that a good husband and wife team is ideal.”
A wonderful storyteller, this “Father of Namibian Hunting,” recalled without nostalgia his close calls with the Big Five and hunting clients, not to mention various vipers in tents and showers, a certain wounded elephant, and one very misbehaving client. My favorite story is how, in 1973, Volker convinced boxing legend and avid hunter, Max Schmeling, to use his fame to help advocate for legislation that would privatize the wild animals on cattle ranches, making them the property of the farmer who could then generate income from sport trophy hunting while simultaneously financially supporting conservation.
Volker’s expertise, enthusiasm and tenacity were hugely important in establishing an exemplary code of hunting ethics that contributes to Namibia’s reputation today as a highly estimated safari destination. He recently wrote, “Additionally, we at NAPHA are presently working on a new, all-encompassing Code of Conduct which could become the National Code.”
He early recognized the importance of conservation legislation, and lived to see that “After 42 years, Namibia Nature Conservation authority is finalising the Protected Areas and Wildlife Management Act that will replace the Ordinance of 1975.”
Volker supported research demonstrating how hunting species such as cheetah, leopard and black rhino ultimately leads to conserving their populations. In Richard Conniff’s book, Swimming with Piranhas at Feeding Time: My Life Doing Dumb Stuff with Animals, the author carefully lays out the “Hemingway look-alike’s” argument of the importance of compensating ranchers for their losses to predators. If ranchers could invite hunters onto their property, Volker explained to Conniff, and charge them a substantial trophy free to kill an otherwise poisoned or trapped cat or an over-mature male of whatever game species available, with a percentage going directly to conservation and the rest benefitting both the landowner and the hunting guide, then cheetahs would become an asset – a valuable cash crop – rather than a nuisance to be exterminated. This is the very essence of “sustainable utilization.”
During our last visit two years ago, Volker said that, “Finally people have started to realize that cattle is not the answer to everything. Game and hunting have taken their rightful place in society. More and more areas are set aside for game ranching. Farms are diversifying. We have more game in this country now then we ever had before selective trophy hunting was initiated seriously 40 years ago.”
He recently wrote to AHG: “The game nowadays is treated with respect, and trophy hunting practices are on an absolute professional level. Game numbers have increased to their highest level ever and are gradually pushing domestic animals off their former primary position. Game is definitely not a liability anymore, but rather one of the greatest assets to landowners, conservationists, and tourism in general.”
Volker was a rare giant in the hunting industry, because he was involved in its creation and tracked it through all its evolutions. Although he recognized that there were still “challenges on the horizon,” he considered his country’s safari future very bright, especially for home-based ranch hunting. “In addition, there are the self-controlled conservancies, which gives unlimited good incentives for game management,” he said.
Volker always looked forward to having the time to sort through his thousands of photos and slides, and sitting down to write out his lifelong experience in the development of hunting in Namibia. If fact, we were going to do it together, “as soon as…” I can’t think of anyone who would be more qualified to write this book than gentleman and hunter Volker Grellmann. At least he had the joy of looking forward to looking back.
Volker is survived by his wife Anke, his two sons Michael and Robert and their wives, Tracy and Carmen, five grandchildren, and a great-grandchild, Maya, he’d just welcomed into the world. “Robert, who was already giving classes, together with the assistance of MET and many a willing supporter, will carry on with the hunting school – which was Volker’s baby over all the years since we started it,” wrote Anke.
Brooke ChilversLubin is the former editor of AHG. The wife of PH Rudy Lubin, she is the art columnist for Gray’s Sporting Journal and a regular contributor to Hunter’s Path magazine.
Oct 30, 2019 | News
There is a certain magic this continent offers the visiting hunter. Our challenge is to understand exactly what that is, package it, and spread the word. But what exactly is this ‘experience’ and how does one describe it? As the sun sets on another year in Africa, I’d like to share some thoughts to mull over.
Your experience started when you boarded the plane – and now you’re in Africa. It’s not just the “Dark Continent.” There’s more. We have nearly one-third of the world’s birds, from the heaviest flying bird, (kori bustard), to the booming call of the strutting ground hornbill, the grand martial eagle, and the elegant secretary bird. There are cuckoos that lay their eggs in weavers’ nests, leaving them for the hosts to rear; the exquisitely colored lilac-breasted roller, kingfishers, plovers. Our avian heritage is world-class. And nothing is more African that the haunting cry of the Fish eagle along a river or water’s edge, or more evocative than the guinea fowl and francolin calls to start the day. And in the evening as you sit round a fire, there is the liquid sound of a nightjar.
irst of all – why hurry? After a long-haul flight and perhaps a connection before that, don’t rush off into the wilderness upon landing. As Baloo in the Jungle Book said – “Just try and relax”. Even if you only have a short time in Africa, make it memorable for the right reasons! I often see hunters whisked from the airport to a connecting flight, or being driven sometimes five or more hours in the dark of the night, just to be at the outfitter’s camp. Why?
Our flora. It’s simply African, whether you are sitting beneath an umbrella acacia, walking through dense riverine vegetation, under fig trees, giant mahogany and camel thorns. There is the grotesque beauty of the lowveld baobab. Be amazed at what can grow in the desert, or wonder what causes the fairy circles of Namibia. Perhaps in Namibia you might see a tree hosting a curiosity of nature – the sociable weavers’ nest, where sometimes hundreds of families live in their straw-structured colony, while on the ground are termite mounds, alive with thousands of termites cleaning their waste and neatly restoring their mud home, only to have it destroyed by an ant-eating aardvark searching for food. When walking at first light you might see a giant spider web festooned with sparkling dewdrops on the finely spun silk. All this before I even mention the animal you wish to hunt.
But what type of hunt do we speak of? Some hunters dream of that iconic African spiral horn – the kudu – with no preconditions. Some search for a perfectly symmetrical pair of horns, no matter what size. Some want the elusive 60-plus inch, or at least 56 inches, identified only by an experienced PH. Others merely wish to be part of a management hunt, reducing numbers, particularly in times of drought.
Buffalo – Africa’s most desirable beast to hunt can be hunted in swamps, in dense river vegetation, on open plains, mountainous terrain and dense thornveld, and impenetrable jesse – and that is before we discuss the size and type of hunting area, from government concessions and wilderness areas to private game reserves and ranches. The variables are endless.
The hunters of yesteryear (who everyone seems to love reading about) were out there for one reason: The experience. There was no conquest as such. No competition, no awards and no rush. Just the allure of being in the African bush. That was – and should be – enough.
So if you’re planning your first or your fifteenth visit – brilliant! But let’s think about the word “experience” and discuss it with your outfitter. Spread the word, spread the thoughts.
Next edition, you will see the launch of our African Dawn Program. We are working with a limited group of outfitters as we go to fields far and wide, spreading the word about African hunting, on a quest to bring those hunters home to the cradle of man.
Have a peaceful year end, and a blessed one.
Aug 21, 2019 | Hunting Stories Online, News
By Jeffery Belongia
I love waking up on safari. Of course, there’s no place like Africa, and even after 52 hunts in seven countries, I have never spent a day there – or even an hour – wishing I were somewhere else. Africa is our ancestral home.
I vividly remember tears running down my cheeks while standing on the northern bank on the Zimbabwe side of Kipling’s “great, grey-green, greasy, Limpopo River”, thinking that I might never be able to return. Vervet monkeys were scolding my presence, seeming to take delight in my imminent departure. It was at the end of my first and long-anticipated “once in a lifetime safari” to a land that I had dreamed about from a very early age. I had been influenced by the television series, The American Sportsman, and Wild Kingdom. I had just ended 14 whirlwind days of delight, adventure, and romance. I had fallen in love with the idea of Africa many years before, but now I had finally realized the dream.
In my state of self-pity I could not imagine, or foresee, the many future hunts for lion, buffalo, crocodile, hippo, elephant, lechwe and bushbuck, along rivers with evocative names like Zambesi, Luangwa, Munyamadzi, Kafue, Angwa, Okavango, Gwaai, Umzingwani, and so many others.
This was in the August of 1982. I was in my late twenties, and had borrowed money for the trip from my mother who had been widowed when I was almost eight years old. My Mom, having worked three jobs to raise four children (I am the oldest) mortgaged her house to provide the money for my dream. She had instilled in her children a supreme work ethic and a commitment to integrity. I was never late with payments in the following 36 months, while at the same time wondering how I could ever afford to return to Africa.
Importantly, there would friendships, friendships that would deeply enrich my soul in many ways. There would be the meeting of a kindred spirit, one who would enlighten me to the true fortunes of Africa, giving and sharing with me the greatest gift I have ever received. Kismet?
Maybe it was the tears that blurred my vision from seeing across the river to the Republic of South Africa and those future safaris. Safaris for all the Eastern Cape antelope. There would be the hunts along the southern bank of the Limpopo in the Transvaal, the many landings in Johannesburg, and six explorations of the famed Kruger National Park.
I would be one of the first Americans – if not the first – to lottery-draw a place on a foot safari along the Olifants River accompanied by a ranger from the Kruger Park. It was cameras only, but a safari nonetheless. The experience would put me within spitting distance of a full-maned ginger-colored lion pancaked in short grass, reluctant to flee because of porcupine quills imbedded in his left front paw. He was, however, able to roar, the reverberations sending chills up and down my spine. I captured him on video, and from that moment on I knew I had to find the means to hunt lion.
Years later I was enjoying breakfast at the Sea Cliff Hotel in Dar-es-Salam waiting for transfer to my charter flight south and west to the Kilombero region and the Selous Game Reserve of Tanzania, for my first lion hunt. This was East Africa, the birthplace of the modern safari. Puku antelope, the ubiquitous prey species were too numerous to count, yet the Game Department only allowed one trophy on a 21-day safari! There were herds of buffalo stretching for more than a kilometer, with the ever-present white cattle egrets circling or riding the backs of the black bovines, and the same license allowed three buffalo, a lion, an elephant, two zebra, plus other species. I joked that Stevie Wonder could shoot a puku there.
The Luangwa River valley in Zambia is a magnificent ecosystem. The river has one of the largest populations of hippo and crocodile on the continent. Thornicroft’s giraffe inhabits its forests, and mango trees are everywhere. Fascinated, I watched people of the Senga tribe dismember my hippo trophy with precision and efficiency, every edible portion happily utilized. Fishing for and eating the delectable flaky white flesh of the huge catfish, Vundu, was a welcome break from prolonged chewing of tough-as-leather Cape buffalo steaks. Collecting a Chobe bushbuck with 18¼ inch horns was gratifying, and making a 93-meter brain shot on a 13 foot crocodile on the far bank of the river was impressive.
The road trip across the Northern Cape from Joburg to Windhoek provided new names for my African vocabulary. Names like Hotazel, Brey, Tosca, and Kuruman, a prosperous cattle and mining area on the Ghaap Plateau. There was the oasis of the Kalahari, Die Oog (The Eye), a place of permanent water, the crystal-clear mineral water almost gin-like. I drank my first distinctly South African Pinotage at the Molopo Hotel near the entrance to the Kalahari Gemsbok National Park. It was a wine a cross between a Pinot Noir and Cinsault grape. I felt as though I had reached Nirvana. I remember toasting those French Huguenots for remembering to bring the vines. I remember opening the boot (trunk) of the Mazda sedan to retrieve my suitcase and marveling at the heavy layer of micro-fine dust that had infiltrated during the 350 kilometers since we had left the tar road.
This 1800-kilometer trek would introduce me to Kalahari bushveld and camel thorn trees, acacia thorn, Tsama melons, gigantic nests built by sociable Weaver birds, Cape cobras, Nama and Damara people, and the magnificent giant oryx (gemsbok), perhaps the finest venison on the continent.
It is almost impossible to rank the vistas of the African bushveld in terms of sheer beauty or significance. There’s the magic of a herd of oryx bathed in the rays of yellow light cast by the late afternoon sun, as they cross the Kalahari dunes, sometimes stopping to glance backwards, their H-painted faces and black rapier horns in sharp contrast with the red sand.
There would be many more trips to Namibia, many to the Etosha National Park, with images of flamingos on the pan, black rhino in the thorn bush, and, at the water during the cooling evenings, two huge male lions leaving a waterhole known as Gemsbokvlakte.
There would be an evening at Okaukuejo waterhole and rest camp with Peter Capstick, the American author of Death in the Long Grass and many other books recounting tales of African hunting and adventure. He gave me a .470-caliber cartridge developed and named for him – the .470 Capstick Cartridge. It sits in my trophy case along with photos of the two of us sharing a sundowner together.
In later years Namibia would give me my second lion. A huge male, pushed out of the Etosha National Park, was preying on the cattle on farms bordering the Park. Circumstance played a role in my being invited to join in on a friend’s attempt at hyena hunting, as at the time Nature Conservation was issuing a PAC to the farmer – a problem animal control tag. Sometimes Fate smiles!
There would be incredible days spent hunting springbok between the seemingly endless red dunes of the Kalahari. In years of good rain, the bright yellow, wintering sour grass carpeted the troughs between the crests of the scarlet dunes. The color contrast with the cloudless blue of the sky was breathtaking.
There would be that sweet taste of the koeksister pastries of Philippolis, a town in the false Karoo of the Orange Free State. That visit was the result of an invitation to shoot at a new friend’s meat hunt. I remember walking the quaint, almost deserted, Voortrekker Road, and a visit with history to the Dutch Reformed Church with its olivewood pulpit which was built without a single nail. I had my introduction to Karoo lamb and the making of biltong and the traditional boerewors (farmer’s sausage), and the unique experience of a traditional braaivleis, or braai (Afrikaans for barbeque). Fortunately, there would be many braais in the future, but it would take time. I needed to earn them!
I would enjoy an introduction to the Johannes de Beer farm at Kimberley, the site of the Great Hole diamond excavation which can be seen from space, the entire digging being a hand-basket removal of millions of buckets of earth, and the capture of billions of dollars of gems. There was a day spent perusing the historic buildings and displays depicting life during those early diamond mining years. Cecil Rhodes would use some of the wealth to carve out a political career, create an empire, and give birth to new pioneers and a new country called Rhodesia.
I had yet to experience the deafening silence of the Namib Desert, or the groaning sound of compressing sand as our Land Cruiser with deflated tires climbed dune after dune on a trek from Solitaire to the Atlantic Coast. To hand was a GPS and a Government permit in the kit, with enough water and provisions for the four-day trek. I was yet to see the azure blue of Sandwich Harbor and the pink string of flamingos that waded in the shallows as we crested that last dune and eased our way down the steep slope to the salt water waves lapping the golden sands. They were sands deposited over eons of time from the Orange River far to the south and swept up the coast in the waters of the Benguela Current.
There would be nights, just after the civil war, sleeping on the Mozambique beach of the Indian Ocean. We had no tents. This was a latrine-digging Spartan adventure. I woke in the warming rays of the rising sun, the grit of sand in my teeth, the smell of the ocean dank in my nostrils, as I pulled back my bedroll and rose to the cacophony of native voices…
I was intrigued by a large group of locals – men, women and children – going through their daily subsistence ritual of pulling a sein net in a large semi-circle through the shallows, while another mob attempted to herd whatever aquatic life they could into the approaching trap. I, too, would be fishing, but we had brought a boat from Nelspruit in South Africa, crossing the border at Komatipoort, heading east to Maputo and then north along the coast to Vilanculos, towing the boat the last few miles across a sand track shaded by a forest of palm trees. The sand track began at the end of a bombed-out, pock-marked tar road lined with burnt-out tanks and military vehicles, all civil war relics. There would be a fishing safari for dorado and kingklip, an invitation from a South African “cowboy” I had met at an SCI show in Las Vegas.
Each time I return to Africa, I have a sensation that says, “I am here where I ought to be.” There is a magic to Africa, a deep-seated, gut feeling that is life-altering. When not in Africa, never has a day gone by since that first trip that I do not think of it. I miss the people, the sights and sounds, the smells, and the feel of Africa.
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I am nearing 1,000 safari days as I write this. The 31 days I have booked for this year will put me over that threshold, not that it was ever a conscious goal. Those will be days filled with excitement, laughter, wonder, expectation, adventure and surprises. Those days will be here and gone before I know it. The anticipation of this trip is nearly as enjoyable as the realization will be. It is always that way.
Famed author and lover of Africa, Karen Blixen noted: “If there were one more thing I could do, it would be to go on Safari once again”.
I know exactly what she meant!
Bio:
A 65-year-old Municipal Securities Banker, Jeffery shares two grown sons with his understanding wife of 35 years, Betsy. He grew up (sort of) in NE Wisconsin. Realizing at a very early age that his eyes faced forward for a reason, he spent most of his non-school hours chasing and catching all types of edible creatures.
Aug 14, 2019 | Hunting Stories Online, News
South Africa: 2016
By Darrell Sterling
Irwin Tam and his sons Stephen and Peter are avid conservationists and lifetime members of SCI, raising and donating tens of thousands of dollars to support wildlife conservation. Like hunting legends Jim Shockey, Scott Haugen, and Dallas Monroe, I booked my dangerous game adventure with the world-renowned Tam Safaris.
The Big Five has always fascinated me. Dangerous game and predator hunting is like adding hot sauce to the sport of hunting. It definitely gives you that extra kick. Now I wanted to do a green hunt and dart the mighty white rhino. Because it requires one to get within 30 yards of an animal that can – and has – thrown a Cape buffalo in the air like a rag doll, it is pretty dangerous. I saw it on a YouTube video and it’s worth the look, but maybe best to watch it after your trip! I was also warned that we would need to keep a sharp eye out for lion because we would be in lion country. I have always wanted to see a lion in the wild and was excited yet terrified about the possible opportunity. My son who is also a hunter laughed at me when I told him I might see a lion. He said lions stay so well hidden that I would probably never see them, but the lions would see me. I asked my guide Steven Tam if my son was right. Steven didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, that sounds right, but you never know.” The thought kept me awake many nights on that safari.
The first task was to get used to shooting the dart gun which is not as accurate as a gun, and has even less of an effective range than a crossbow, but Steven assured me we would get close enough for a shot. Then we headed out in the safari vehicles, covering plenty of ground. I was looking hard, but obviously not hard enough.
There are two rhinos to your right,” Steven casually remarked. “Where?” Steven directed me, and through my binoculars they came to life. At a distance they looked just like large gray rocks. As we got closer Steven decided they were not good bulls and weren’t what we were looking for, so on we went. We found a herd of eight rhinos with a couple of very nice bulls. The problem was they were out in the open, making stalking up to them nearly impossible. Steven really liked two of the bulls, but warned we would likely have little success because the terrain was not ideal. However, the trophy quality of the bulls made it was worth the effort.
We drove a way past them, stashed the vehicle, judged the wind and started our long walk back over to the rhinos. These animals are extremely smart. They lie down with their backsides to the wind so they can smell anything coming up from behind them, and see what’s in front of them. They also tend to lie in a semi-circle with one rhino standing as a forward scout.
The rhino seem to be like sheep – they know your effective range and will move off any time you start closing that gap. We had walked close enough using bushes, rocks, and anthills as cover, and were finally in position where we could no longer walk bent over low to the ground. It was time to low-crawl. We scooted, wormed, and crawled our way over the next hour, stopping and trying to get into position. I stayed directly behind Steven, our tracker close behind me filming the hunt. The rhinos were alert to our presence but hadn’t spooked. We could hear them breathing and rustling about. We were about 45 yards away from eight large rhinos.
“Ten more yards,” Steven whispered, gesturing to the prone rhino to my left. We didn’t even make it another five yards when they all bolted up and thundered away. The agility and speed was startling. The amount of ground they covered so quickly was frightening, especially considering we were only forty yards away.
The rhinos stayed out in the open, so we went back to the truck to see if we could find any closer to some rock outcrops or trees so that we could more easily stalk within range. We did find others, but none that Steven liked as much as the bulls in the small herd we had spooked earlier, so he decided to head back their way to see if maybe they had moved or broken off into two groups.
We found all eight rhinos. They had stayed together but had moved off into a small strip of trees with a ravine that snaked around, giving us a nice break in the terrain to conceal ourselves. When we went into the ravine, it became obvious it had been used as a lion’s den. The collection of bones, skulls, and horns was horrific. A couple of the kills couldn’t have been more than a few days old, judging by the rotting meat still left on the bones.
Steven marched ahead unfazed by the carnage we had just walked through. I looked backwards at our tracker who was still following me, and he looked unsettled! I intended to stay as close to Steven as possible. We finally got to the point where we able to sneak a peek over the ravine. The rhinos were close, but their advance scout spotted us and the group moved further away. I was starting to wonder if this was ever going to come together. The rhinos broke into two groups, and using trees as cover we left the ravine and circled downwind through the trees trying to get in front of them. The rhinos also bolted from cover, running at us as we were running toward them. It is one of the craziest moments of my life.
We stopped quickly behind a large thorn bush and the rhinos halted at the edge of their cover. Both animals and humans stopped and stared at each other through the cover. It was a Mexican standoff in the middle of the African bush. Both sides stayed frozen for what seemed like an hour but was probably only about ten to fifteen minutes until the rhinos lost interest in whatever was hidden behind the thorn bush. They began to relax and graze, but as usual one rhino stood as a scout while the others went about their business. Steven pulled me aside.
“We are only twenty yards away, hidden by the bush, easily within range,” he whispered.
I raised the dart gun, setting my sights on a nice rhino that I thought Steven wanted me to take, only to find out I was on the wrong one. The advance scout didn’t like the movement, and the rhinos started to slowly move away. I was still aiming at the first bull and was beginning to shake.
“Wait,” said Steven, “our target is the last in line, and he’s just emerging from a bush directly in front of us.” But as the rhino was starting to pick up speed to catch up with the others, Steven said, “Now, on the shoulder!”
I squeezed the trigger. It made a metallic click but the dart never left the chamber, and away the rhinos went. I was dumbfounded. Steven asked me what happened. I didn’t know. I had pulled the trigger. Steven checked the .22 round that ejected the dart, and it wasn’t pitted, so the firing pin never released. The only explanation we could come up with was the bolt of the dart gun must lifted during our low dash to the thorn bush. I was demoralized. We needed to have the darting done as the vet had been scheduled, and the sun was getting low. Steven, Mr Cool, was never rattled and didn’t hesitate.
“It was a mechanical problem. Let’s get back on them, they aren’t spooked too bad. Let’s go.”
I trailed Steven as usual, but my head was down and I was dragging. I was worn out from two very close encounters, excess adrenaline, and miles of chugging along in the hot African sun turning my tanned skin into a brilliant lobster-red color. The sun was beginning to set. Steven thought we could get one more try if we could hustle back to the truck, circle around and head back to the ravine. He thought with the group broken up, a couple of the rhinos might cross through the little ravine giving us our shot opportunity.
I thought it was a waste of time. All day they had outmaneuvered us, and at the one clean look we got, the round didn’t go off, which worried me. I also didn’t want to go through into a pile of bones left by lions that might have decided to return. I kept reminding myself of my policy to stay close to Steven, which I did. We had just started working our way around in the ravine when a big rhino bull ran into view. Steven motioned to get down and whispered, “When he crosses in front of us, hit him in the shoulder as he goes up the ravine.”
The massive bull was only twenty yards away. I pulled the trigger, and mercifully the round went off. The smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils and we heard the smack of the dart as it penetrated the rhino’s thick skin.
White rhinos rarely charge, so when the massive bull ran up the bank and turned to look at where the troublesome sting came from I figured he would just run away from the problem. Instead, he wheeled around, saw us standing there, and charged. He came at us like a freight train. A 2,000 pound monster with a spear on his head, barrelling toward us at about 35 miles an hour. Part of the charge was caught on video, the second half of the video being a blurry image of the ground as our tracker/cameraman sprinted out of the area!
I was frozen, waiting to see what direction the bull was going to go. Steven stepped in front of me, screaming at the enraged charging rhino, waving his .416 Rigby over his head. The rhino slowed a little, but keep coming. Steven yelled at me to move. I broke out of my trance side-stepping off to the left. Steven screamed even louder and waved his gun higher and wider. The rhino, agile as any athlete, turned on a dime away from the loud noise and bolted off to the right. Thankfully!
And that’s how I survived a charge from a white rhino at close range. If it weren’t for Steven I surely wouldn’t be writing about our adventure. The man has iced water in his veins. He calmly walked over to me, and reached out his hand.
“Well done, congratulations,” he said.
I believe to book a green rhino hunt with anyone other than Tam Safaris would be a bad decision – these two brothers are incredibly brave amazing hunters. I fulfilled my dream hunt and flew home with memories that will last me for the rest of my days.
BIO: Darrell is a successful big-game hunter who loves Africa and he has taken a variety of different species of big-game animals on multiple continents. He is also a free-lance writer who has been published many times by numerous outdoor magazines.
Aug 7, 2019 | Hunting Stories Online, News
Mozambique: 2017
By Darby Wright
“We must go into the jesse and search for our buffalo,” said our PH Ian Rutledge.
If you’ve never been to Mozambique, you’d be amazed. It’s a hunter’s paradise! Villagers live in mud and grass-thatch huts, solely in subsistence mode, surviving mainly on mealie meal porridge, and meat provided by visiting hunters. Dugout canoes are still commonly used for water transportation and fishing. Drums are often used for communication between villages and during celebrations. This million-acre concession borders the shores of Lake Cahora Bassa that dams the mighty Zambezi River. Every year many villagers are attacked, mauled and killed by marauding lions and elephants, and often villagers are snatched by crocodiles from the river bank while washing clothes or obtaining drinking water! This is wild Africa almost as it was a hundred years ago.
Countless days of driving innumerable roads in this huge concession, searching for buffalo tracks, was the order of the day. Once tracks were found, the trackers would read them like a book and tell us if it was a big herd or not.
Sometimes, “It’s a small herd of Dagga Boys,” they would say. Our driver Jabo would stay with the truck, and off we’d go on foot, walking endless miles in some of the thickest bush known to man. Most of the vegetation was covered with long, short, and hook-shaped thorns, and often we would emerge from the bush bleeding from head to toe. The shooter on this hunt would be my 23-year-old daughter Kayleigh, she being the veteran of several other buffalo safaris. Our outfitter was Simon Rodger with Safaris de Moçambique.
Simon Rodger has always been very accommodating, providing excellent, well-maintained tented camps, spacious and comfortable, and top-notch PHs. He even brought in a hostess/chef, Christine, to make sure we were well taken care of as we moved from camp to camp during our hunt. Often we returned after dark, ravenous, and were greeted with sundowners and marvelous hot meals.
Day after day we would locate tracks, park the truck, and take off into the thickest of jesse. Plenty of crunchy leaves and swirling breezes made it very difficult to approach buffalo in this thick bush. Once we got within 25 yards of an old Dagga Boy, when we realized he was blind in one eye. We watched him for quite a while until he finally ambled off. From the sight of the claw marks on his back, it looked as though he had lived a tough life.
Another time we got within a 100 yards of a small herd that had several nice bulls. But as we got on them, they had just finished watering and were starting to file out away from us. Ian told Kayleigh to get ready on the sticks – he was going to blow a predator call and, hopefully, make them stop in their tracks. But to our surprise, at the sound of the squealing, all hell broke loose, and the whole herd ran out of sight. We marched back to the truck licking our wounds! This went on day after day.
One morning our PH Ian, two trackers, the game scout, and Kayleigh and I were scouting along a huge backwater swamp bordered with vegetation, as well as some nice-sized crocs sunning on the banks. We were walking single file when we came to a large tree that had fallen across the game trail. I diverted to the right uphill to walk around it, and everyone else walked to the left closer to the water to get past the huge tree, when I heard shouting and yelling. Then I saw everybody running in all directions, and one of the trackers kept yelling, “Mambas! Mambas!” Apparently we had interrupted two quite large black mambas that had come down for a drink! We later found their tracks where they had crossed the dusty road up above the watercourse. Once our hearts stopped racing, we decided to head back to camp early and regroup – so far, the buffs were winning!
We were all exhausted, weary from days and days of tracking and stalking buffalo. Long, fruitless tracking hikes were starting to take their toll on us. Our legs and feet were sore, and our backs hurt from driving miles on back roads. Kayleigh’s a trooper and loves the thrill and excitement of buffalo hunting. She took the numerous days of not getting a shot all in her stride. Up an hour before daylight, (mornings in central Mozambique are cold), black coffee, breakfast, then off to the bush and back to camp well after dark.
One day we tracked a large herd up and down steep hills covered with thorn bush so thick we could only get glimpses of parts of buffalo. As we were glassing the herd, Kayleigh and I felt a faint breeze on the backs of our necks. As the wind swirled the herd picked up our scent and bolted – cows, calves and bulls all pounded out of sight. Then it was the long trek back to the truck.
Our head tracker Willy never gave up hope – he always held his head high and kept a positive attitude, and his determination to succeed was obvious. He basically had our chance of success riding on his back. Day after day, mile after mile, he planned and plotted, organized and schemed and formulated a plan for us to follow. Our PH Ian was just as obsessed with making this safari a success. His relentless persistence and positive attitude kept us all in the game. We discussed our strategies every evening over dinner. Eventually we chose a new plan of attack and decided to give the thick jesse areas a rest.
We would look for buffalo in the thick reed beds closer to Lake Cahora Bassa. If you’ve never been in the reed beds, you’d be in for a big surprise. Each plant has hundreds of needle-sharp points on the end of each leaf, which puncture your skin repeatedly – ouch! These reed beds are full of buffalo and hippo trails that lead into overgrown vegetation tunnels. We often crawled through these tunnels not knowing what kind of “freight train” might be waiting at the other end! Hippo tracks were everywhere, and we could hear hippos snorting in the distance.
Finally we got within 30 yards of a herd of buffalo, some grazing, others lying or standing, but we couldn’t see the bull we wanted. Quite a few younger bulls were visible. The wind was blowing in our faces and the reeds were swaying. Willy kept manuevering us around the herd, constantly shifting and repositioning. After moving 12-15 times, we were all huffing and puffing, continually glassing.
We settled down in the reeds, still glassing. Ian had Kayleigh place the .375 H&H on the short sticks because we were down on the ground. There were at least 20-30 buffalo coming in and out of the reeds, interacting with each other. Several decent bulls were seen, but Ian was holding out for something special. We must have been hiding there for 15-20 minutes watching and waiting, when out of nowhere suddenly loomed a larger-than-life magnificent bull, that was by far much larger and mature than any we had seen for days! Ian whispered for Kayleigh to shoot. At the sound of the blast, buffalo stampeded in all directions. The big bull ran straight into the thick reed beds at the shot. Everything happened so fast, but now all was quiet. After waiting for a while we all cautiously proceeded towards the area where the bull had gone into the reeds.
“Where did the bull enter the reeds?” Ian asked Willy. Willy pointed towards a slight opening, about 50 yards away, and we could see the vague shape of a downed animal. Ian asked Kayleigh to shoot at the shoulder outline as we all stood in anticipation. At the shot there was no movement. The massive bull was hers!
Once the reeds were chopped away from this monster buff we became aware of what an amazing animal it was. It had huge, widespread bosses with heavy mass all the way out to the tips. Ian and Willy both said it was the best buffalo of their combined 45-year hunting careers. The whole team was dancing with joy, Kayleigh was ecstatic, and she gratefully shook hands with everyone.
After days and days of tracking, the hard work had paid off.
Back at camp several days later we found the bull to have a 47″ spread and scored SCI 138.
Our thanks to Simon Rodger and everyone who made this hunt possible – Thank You!
Bio
Darby and Kayleigh Wright live in New Braunfels Texas and have hunted in Australia, Argentina, Namibia, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe and Mexico They have also outfitted and enjoy self-guided hunting and fishing in Alaska .They’re always ready for the next adventure!
