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.
.
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!
Aug 5, 2019 | News
By Kim Stuart
Zimbabwe: 1996 – 2018
It was 1996 when I was with hunting buddy Jim Gefroh. Being novices, we had booked our first tuskless hunt in Zimbabwe in November. The weather was hot and beyond humid. The jesse was thick – in places like a rainforest. We encountered elephants from the beginning of day one, until the last day of the hunt. We were charged, and held our ground. We aborted a shot when, at the last second, a newborn calf was spotted lying under its mother’s belly. We crawled into a herd of buffalo, and realized almost too late that we were also in a herd of elephant. We got lost, ran out of water, got caught in the rain, lost weight and suffered from the tropical heat. We were essentially thrown into a mosh pit of elephant hunting and… we were hooked!
Over the following years we experienced other challenges. An enraged matriarch charged us without provocation. Our PH, with his back literally against a tree, steadfastly stopped the charge. His head-shot to the angry cow was taken at four meters! What had started as a relatively simple quest, to shoot a tuskless cow elephant with a period muzzleloading rifle, essentially took on a life of its own.
First, we needed the correct black powder rifle. A big-bore percussion rifle capable of knocking down an elephant was not one you could order online. The ivory hunters of the past used a minimum of an 8 bore, or .80 caliber. Their rifle of last resort, or “Stopping rifle” was a monstrous sixteen-pound 4 bore, (4 balls per pound, so each of the round ball projectiles weighed one quarter pound). Jim’s mission was to build custom black powder rifles. After considerable research and untold hours of work, he built both rifles, the 8 bore and 4 bore, both in the classic German Jaeger style – full stock rifles – with percussion actions. He also built an 8 bore flintlock rifle for himself.
Moist conditions necessitated keeping powder dry and the rifle barrels moisture free. With the help of a “cow’s knee” over the breach of the muzzleloaders for protection and a finger cot over the barrel, we were successful. Field repairs, what we called, “MacGyver” fixes, raised Jim’s creative gun-building ability to another level. Without specialized black powder rifle-building tools he was limited, but nonetheless he always kept us in the game. A highly recommended new hi-tech projectile turned out to be a disappointment. Jim cut the top of the slug, removed a small ball encased in gel, and filed a fresh tip on the bullet, saving the muzzleloader part of the safari.
More than once we returned home having not fired a shot. Consequently, we critiqued our performance and that of the PH. We were driven back to the drawing board with more research upgrading the rifles and experimenting with new projectiles. Our 8 bore slug now weighed 1,360 grains and was propelled by 270 grains of 2FFG black powder. The 4 bore, or “Big Mack” pushed the quarter pound, one inch diameter ball, with the same charge of 270 grains. The rifles had become very dependable and very capable hunting tools.
In 2015 we had been lucky hunting with our PH Johan on a conventional rifle hunt in a different area of Zimbabwe – our “Safari from Heaven”, taking two tuskless elephant cows with one frontal brain shot each, and two buffalo cows with one shot each. That hunt was the finale of multiple hunts in many of Zimbabwe’s hunting concessions with many different professional hunters, over a period of twenty years! We had been severely skunked, and calculated that the number of days in the bush hunting tuskless cows during those years would exceed 50. Hard to believe, but true.
In an attempt to recreate, “The Safari from Heaven” we booked a rifle hunt with Johan again. This safari would take place in the Dande South area of Zimbabwe. Would it be another bust? Would it be like returning to a fabulous restaurant to experience a memorable meal from the past? Would it be like checking out your high-school girlfriend at a 50-year reunion, and wishing you hadn’t? We had tremendous faith in Johan’s hunting skills and those of his trackers, but in reality, what were the chances of recreating our “Safari from Heaven?”
We had hunted hard for a week. We followed the spoor of many elephants, sometimes finding the animals. We were close and very personal with elephants deep in the bush trying to identify a tuskless cow. Difficult, because of the necessity of checking for a tusk on each side of the animal’s head. We spotted small herds on ridges far away, taking the time to close the gap and look for a tuskless cow. We drove to distant areas, high in the hills of the multi-thousand-hectare concession, hoping to find sign of elephants. We got up earlier each morning, driving to the dry river, attempting to catch elephants returning to the bush after watering in the early hours. We set up lookouts at one area of the riverbank, in touch by radio with Johan at another, hoping to set up an ambush when the elephants crossed the riverbed and headed into the bush to feed. We speculated, strategized, theorized and calculated, all to no avail. All our efforts resulted in seeing one tuskless cow – and she vanished before we could get close enough for a shot.
And now, mid-morning on our last day of our 7-day hunt, Philip the tracker who was leading our team of eight, spotted some unusual spoor from a few yards away. The wide drag marks were etched deeply into the dry sand of the Angwa riverbed. We were about to move from the bush onto the sand, when Philip stopped abruptly and conferred with our PH Johan, and Admire, our second tracker. Their opinion was the same: We were looking at the spoor of an elephant in severe distress. Visually following the spoor to approximately 500 yards down the riverbed, we could see the elephant. Johan raised his binoculars and took a long look.
“The elephant is standing with most of its weight on the left back leg,” he reported. “Something is definitely wrong with the right front leg. Let’s take a closer look.” We slowly closed the gap another two hundred yards on the unsuspecting elephant. Further inspection by Johan described grossly enlarged teats, one almost touching the ground between the elephant’s legs. “Let’s call Parks and Wildlife and report this right now.”
In rural Africa, like many places around the world, cell phone service does not always cooperate. We had to leave the elephant and drive thirty minutes to a high point on a nearby ridge to find reception and make our call. After reporting the details of the distressed elephant, Parks’ response was, “We’ll get back to you.” Unbelievably, they did, but with the caveat that they must also get the permission of the local village Council before giving us the go-ahead to put the animal down. We expected hours of delay, but amazingly Johan’s cell phone rang in just minutes.
“You must take a video of the live animal, the tracks she made from the bush, a field autopsy, and any other documentation you can to verify the need for putting the elephant down. Also, you must deliver all the meat to the local village, and the ivory and skin to the local Parks office.”
We had been charged with a mission of mercy. There would be zero drama in our duty. No ears-back-vengeful charge. No close-quarters shooting in dense bush. Just a purely ethical service provided by hunters when called upon.
Our trip back to the dry river was a quiet one, and our plan was simple. Johan, Jim and I would proceed to the riverbed downwind and behind the old cow, walking quietly and narrowing the gap as close as possible to avoid being seen. Our trackers and game scouts would remain behind.
As we approached the elephant it was obvious how severely distressed she was. The abscessed and swollen gland was huge and almost touched the ground. She carried as much weight as possible on her left leg, trying to relieve the pain of her damaged right leg. We stalked to approximately 30 yards from where she was standing. Sensing something, but not knowing what, she began to swing her head from side to side. Within a few moments she detected us and turned to face the intruders suddenly appearing behind her.
Jim fired first, a frontal brain shot as she stared us down. I followed with a second shot to the brain, and Johan put a third shot into the side of the head as she turned, collapsing on her rear legs. She folded rapidly with a heart/lung shot by Jim, where she had stood in pain an instant before. Our mission was completed in seconds.
Everything had been recorded on video and camera, and now the work of the autopsy and meat recovery began. We documented large, fluid-filled boils that ran from her hip down the length of her right back leg. As we opened her cavity and exposed her vitals, further illness was obvious. She had numerous melon-sized cysts on her intestines. Also, she was on her last set of teeth, and probably 35 to 40 years old. It was obvious she had been very close to death and might have lasted only a few days to a week longer, provided she wasn’t taken first by the lions we had seen in the area.
Our next and very real concern: How safe was the meat we would be delivering to the local village? As we were the last hunters of the season, and the villagers would be approaching a six-month involuntary vegetarian regime, the meat would be highly valued. However, Johan would be responsible if the villagers fell ill due to tainted meat. The Parks and Wildlife game scout couldn’t make a call about the meat, neither could the local Council game scout for fear of losing their jobs.
Sensing an impasse, I cut a small piece of meat from an area of the rear hip, away from any boils, smelled the meat, and ate it. Tough and grainy, it tasted like elephant meat I had eaten in the past, only raw. I felt comfortable enough to call it safe for human consumption. Field test completed! We continued to butcher the old cow and load the meat for transportation to the village. The trunk, as tradition dictates, was taken to the head of the village, as well as the heart, spleen, and other organs. Protein is a valuable commodity, and what was not eaten in the next few days would be salted, dried, and consumed at a future date.
Our humanitarian mission accomplished, though we hadn’t traveled halfway around the world just to put down a sick elephant. Our reason for this hunt had been to take a tuskless cow.
So, did we get skunked again? No way! It was great spending time again with Johan, and his wife and two boys after the hunt. We ate the best biltong ever. Experienced a new hunting area. Felt part of the village, even if it was only for a week. Our team was terrific. Our game scout, a lady and the new face of African women was a devoted professional without losing her charm and wonderful sense of humor. Her Shona name was, Nyaradzo Shiridzinodya, (in English, Memory Birds Can Eat.) Our trackers, Philip and Admire, worked tirelessly to find and follow fresh elephant spoor. Shumba, our local Council game scout, was a quiet presence of security and calmness, always with a smile and ready to help, no matter what the job.
Over the past 25 years Jim and I have hunted for tuskless elephant cows in, Chowari North and South, Omey North and South, Dande North and on this safari, Dande South, as well as other concessions whose names I don’t remember. In over 100-man days of hunting our one lucky tuskless cow safari had been with Johan.
As Johan reminded us when he bid goodbye at the airport, “Hunting can be cruel. Better luck next time.”
Will there be a next time?
