The largest, the fastest running and arguably one of the most unique birds on the planet – the Ostrich – is a hardy, resilient, yet magnificent regal creature which stands nine feet tall.
Distinctly African, it is distinctly linked to mankind’s past. The Ostrich has inspired cultures and civilizations for centuries, dating back 5,000 years. The hunter-gatherers, the forefathers of the San Bushmen of the Kalahari used ostrich eggshells as water containers for centuries. Holes were drilled into the emptied eggs, used to store precious water and buried stashed in the ground. This ancient tribe of native Africans also produced jewelry from the creamy, textured, strong and elegant material.
Only the Ostrich feathers adorned the well-heeled people of Europe and America, but never ostrich shell jewelry for decades. Today, the Ostrich is the source of one of the most sustainable works of art – Ostrich Jewelry. Egg shells are collected after the birds have bred and raised their young, and artists in the southern tip of Africa use the discarded shells of the unusual birds to design, produce and offer a range of truly unique jewelry.
Now, we can offer a choice of classic Ostrich shell jewelry, from necklaces to earrings, cufflinks to pendants .The range is vast, the selection is wide. We invite you to browse through our array and choose a piece to complement your taste.
The world of cartridges has now reached a degree of madness that defies belief. Barely a month goes by that one company or another does not introduce a new “factory” round — most of them merely duplicating what already exists, and almost all eminently forgettable.
How many of these will still be around in five years — that is, chambered in a factory rifle with factory ammunition available — is anyone’s guess. I suspect not many. Most will have gone to their reward like the so-called “short magnums” that proliferated 15 or 20 years ago. A couple are still around, but not exactly robust; the others have wandered off into oblivion.
This would not matter, were it not for the fact that a few people bought the rifles and are now unable to obtain ammunition. For one or two, even brass for reloading sells at a stiff premium, if you can find it at all.
For the past 50 years, at least, everyone from gun writers to professional hunters have been warning prospective safari clients that it is very risky to go to Africa with a rifle chambered for a wildcat cartridge. Now, the same can be said for many of these new factory wunderkind.
There are several dangers. With a wildcat, where a cartridge is formed from another case with a different headstamp, your ammunition will not match your rifle. Some African countries have very specific regulations about the amount of ammunition you can take in, and a few stipulate that it must match your own firearm. This came about, I think, because clients used to bring in hard-to-get ammunition, like .416 Rigby or .4709 NE, for their PH, even if they did not have such a rifle themselves.
Whatever the reason, I have had customs officials examine every single round of ammunition, trying to match the headstamp to the caliber mark on the rifle barrel.
Another, and greater, danger is that your ammunition will get lost in transit, and you will have to try to obtain some locally, or else use a borrowed rifle on your very expensive African trip. There are very, very few cartridges that are readily available in African countries, especially those with a limited safari industry. The ‘A’ list includes .30-06, .303 British, .308 Winchester, and .458 Winchester Magnum; on the ‘B’ list are the 7mm Remington Magnum, .300 Winchester Magnum, and .270 Winchester.
Depending on the country, you might find some European calibers like the 8×57 or 7×57, but I wouldn’t count on it.
Finally, there is always the danger of running into some restriction regarding the importation of “military” calibers. This particular problem has been around for more than a century, beginning in (I believe) some British colonies, such as Sudan, where after 1905 you could not import anything in .450 or, later, in .303 British. Today, in countries where poaching is rampant and the rifles used are generally AK-47s or FN-FALs, there might be a prohibition on 7.62×39 or .308 Winchester — the latter because it is the same cartridge as the 7.62×51 NATO.
Obviously, the place to start in deciding what to bring on safari is to talk with your professional hunter right at the beginning, and stay in touch with him until your day of departure. Regulations change, often, seemingly, at the whim of some official who thinks he knows more than he does.
There is a final consideration which has nothing to do with legality and everything to do with taste and values. Twenty years ago, during the heyday of custom-rifle making, clients spending ten or twelve grand for a custom rifle almost always stipulated that it be a .30-06, .270 Winchester, or something similar. Today, when these rifles come up for sale at auction, anything in an unusual caliber, whether it is a wildcat, a short-lived wunderkind, or an oddball like the 7mm STW, brings considerably less money.
Classic rifles, which these are, demand classic cartridges. Fortunately, it is the classic cartridges (.30-06 et al) which are recognizable to customs officials, and which can be found in most parts of Africa.
Now, you may ask: Where does the 6.5 Creedmoor fit in? It is, right now, the hottest cartridge extant, billed as the finest round since the .30-06 for everything from long-range target shooting to hunting in thick brush. You might be able to find some, in some parts of Africa, but I wouldn’t depend on it. And anyway, practically speaking, what will it do that the .270 Winchester or .30-06 will not? The short answer is, little or nothing. It is still best to stick with the classics.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=” View article in E-ZINE” color=”chino” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Fapr-may-june-2019%2F%23africa-hunting-gazette%2F118-119||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]
“You have just taken one of the Tiny Ten,” said Arnold.
“What is that?” I asked, somewhat disinterested. My PH Arnold Claasson and I were traveling back from our vaalie hunt in the mountains near the town of Graaf-Reinet in the South African Karoo. I had just achieved a many-decades’ goal of taking my dream animal, the vaalie (Vaal rhebok). Arnold explained that this category included members of Southern African pygmy antelope, and that not only had I collected the first of these, but the main Blaauwkrantz Safaris property we were speeding towards was an excellent place to get at least three more Tiny Tenners.
However, I was obsessed with the thought of my second-most desired trophy, a zebra, and a tiny ten candidate did not have much appeal.
Fast forward three days and hunting on the marvelous 100,000-plus acres near Port Elizabeth had already netted a Burchell’s zebra, a huge Eastern Cape kudu, a large mountain reedbuck, and a very nice red hartebeest. Sometime during the collection of these wonderful trophies, I had decided to change my aim at creatures that could run me over, rip me apart, stomp me into a puddle, or even give me a nasty scratch, and rather focus on the Tiny Ten.
Encouraged by the incessant remarks from the three PHs to take more Pygmy antelopes, I think that the final incentive was the thrill I experienced as I watched my first klipspringers, or (“klippies”) , seemingly dance across the slopes in the mountainous. I was mesmerized.
One of the highlights of my safari was driving about and walking around the mountains. More than once we were almost blown out of them by gale-force winds, and the weather, like in all mountainous areas around the world, could change in a heartbeat from pleasant to ugly and back again. But, I loved the harsh look of the mountains, so different from the thick, nasty chaparral-esque vegetation found lower down. So, as we headed back up the seriously rough road in Arnold’s 4×4 pick-up, I could feel my spirits lifting.
We had almost reached the highest ridge when we spotted the little antelope that had held me entranced earlier in the hunt – a group of klippies. One of the little animals was a beautiful male whose horns even I could see.
We stopped, jumped down, and Arnold quickly got me on the rest.
“Remember, BEHIND the shoulder or you’ll damage the skin!” he said quietly. I was shooting my 7mm Remington Magnum with 175-grain Nosler Partitions. I was expecting that by careful shot placement there would be little damage to the tiny animal. (Note to all who will hunt Pygmy antelope: Use solids only!). At my shot, the little form was lifted off the rock on which he was perched and tumbled down the rocky slope. We found him at once and examined his skin. Arnold turned to me, and said quietly, “Did I not say ‘behind the shoulder’?”
It seems the male had been quartering ever-so-slightly away and my ‘behind-the-shoulder’ only worked for the on-shoulder. The off-side, on the other hand, resembled the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. As I was starting to freak out at the mess I’d made, Arnold added, “Your whole mount of the klippie won’t be on a rotating stand, so just put the off-shoulder toward the wall.”
We took photos and enjoyed the Eastern Cape high country while our tracker Neville field-dressed the little animal. As we jostled back down to the rough track, I realized I was hooked.
The following morning we headed out, but this time keeping to the lowlands to look for duiker and grysbok. I pondered on what might keep these two at low elevations, while klippies and vaalies remained higher. Regardless, hunting them would be very different. Because of the impenetrable lowland vegetation, instead of spot-and-stalking, we would either “lamp” (spotlight) them at night, or call them in daylight. (Night hunting with a light source is wildly illegal in my home country, but lamping is accepted in many African countries, especially for collecting largely nocturnal species.)
We started off looking for grey duiker during daylight hours, with Arnold using an inexpensive varmint call to lure the animals into the open – a brilliant way to be able to check the gender, as well as the horn dimensions on the males. Though the morning and afternoon hunts saw Arnold successfully call in a number of duikers, none of the males reached his self-imposed minimum length of 4½ inches. A number of times I readied myself on the bipod rest, but, “We can do better,” Arnold would whisper.
I didn’t mind not collecting the beautiful little brown animal on that day, captivated as I was by my first hunting experience involving calling. Watching the duikers dashing across the landscape from one patch of vegetation to another, or crossing large open areas just to reach the source of the call was another highlight. Some of these pygmy antelope ventured several hundred yards to investigate the sound. Several came within bayonet range, while others stopped 30-ish yards away from our stands.
Arnold turned his attention to organizing a pre-dinner lamping expedition: the goal was to collect a trophy grysbok. I was excited at the thought of collecting a new species with a new hunting method. Arnold wanted at least 2½ inch horns with good bases, and I was reassured that we had still many nights to hunt and, most importantly, Arnold and our trackers, Jambo and Neville, were excellent.
Once night had fallen, we headed along the rough trail to an area of mixed lowland shrub bordered by open plains. Jambo held the spotlight, with Arnold and me on either side of him. The spotlight beam had to be kept even with the rifle’s action, otherwise the shooter would see only a bright glare from the light shining into the ocular end of their scope. As we went down the track with Jambo continually shifting the beam from left to right, a little form jogged into the beam and stayed just in front of us. It was a Cape grysbok female. We kept up the South African version of the “slow-chase” for about 100 yards, till the little animal finally trotted off into the vegetation.
Our light also caught a Cape fox and a grey duiker, but both were safe – the former needing a permit we did not possess, and the latter to be focused on in daylight. Because I was having such a wonderful time seeing the creatures and countryside in the lamp’s beam, I was almost sorry that it ended so quickly. But within 30 minutes Jambo quietly signaled for us to stop. He was holding the beam on a diminutive shape at the edge of a stand of trees and bushes.
Arnold raised his binoculars as they got me situated on the rest. The animal was turned sideways, necessary to be able to judge the horns. Grysbok’s ears are dark along the inner edge, which can give the impression of horns on females if they are facing you.
As I found the pygmy antelope in my field of view, my reticles were sharp in the lamplight. “That’s your animal,” whispered Arnold. I made certain that my crosshairs were behind the “on” shoulder. I lost him in the recoil and chambered another round as I readjusted my sight picture. He was not there, and I turned to Jambo and Arnold.
“He’s down,” Arnold said. I breathed a sigh of relief and a prayer of thanks.
However…
Yep, I’d done it again! Shooting behind the shoulder on what I saw as an animal standing at a 90o angle to my rifle barrel had resulted in a meat-grinder effect on the off-shoulder of the grysbok that was quartering away. Arnold’s encouraging, “Hey, at least this one was facing the opposite direction relative to the Klippie, so you can have them mounted gazing at one another,” fell on less than amused ears. He was right again. Only one side would be visible on the wall mount. Remember: use solids, use solids, use solids on pygmy antelope!”
Three of the four Tiny Tens were in the salt, and the next morning broke with a particularly bright halo. We headed back out to try and call in a mature trophy duiker. I had no idea what the SCI awards were before my hunt. I just wanted to experience Africa. I did not have ‘award-level’ goals but fortunately, Arnold knew what mature animals were, and that was what we hunted.
As we walked from the truck through the chaparral-like habitat and scrabbled across the slope, Arnold pointed down at a rusted horseshoe.
“That’s from the ‘English War’”. When queried, he clarified that that was what is generally known as ‘The Boer War’. I love historical artifacts, so with his permission I took it. We finally arrived at the target of our hike, an open hillside where we had a commanding view of a valley and the hillside opposite. Before the calling began, we spotted a nice nyala bull and a kudu bull and cow across the valley, browsing on the opposite slope.
Arnold blew only twice through his call, when we heard a crashing noise in the brush in the valley. Fortunately, I had already placed my rifle on the bipod before a duiker bolted from the underbrush.
“That’s your ram,” Arnold whispered.
“How far?” I asked as I aimed.
“He seen us, shoot!” At the shot, the little form collapsed.
“Let’s go collect him,” said my never-flustered PH. As the photos were posed, I sat cradling the little ram’s chin, and realized that Arnold, Jambo and Neville had accomplished a transformation: In the span of one safari they had changed a novice African hunter into a glassy-eyed fanatic, one intent on returning as many times as possible to succeed in collecting the remaining marvelous species making up the Tiny Ten.
Michael Arnold is a Distinguished Research Professor in the Department of Genetics, University of Georgia, USA. He is also a hunter, albeit with the occasional mishap! He is passionate about the shooting sports (especially hunting) and writing about said sports. [/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”chino” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Fapr-may-june-2019%2F%23africa-hunting-gazette%2F74-75||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_masonry_media_grid grid_id=”vc_gid:1556115038611-cb3f91f2-ac98-3″ include=”21260,21261,21262″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Dangerous-game Hunting – not just for “Real Men” By Bill Head
Uninitiated Americans often see African adventure through images of fictionalized rough and dirty “Real Men” like John Wayne (Hatari) or Robert Redford (Out of Africa). I did. But frankly, guys do not go to Africa and find lonely heiresses or rope rhinos.
Merely an ordinary deer hunter, I made my first safari to the Karoo, hunting for kudu and oryx from a comfortable, cliff-based 5-Star chalet with a chef. I ignored warnings that once you go, Africa gets into your head. But beware – it does!
Upon arrival in Windhoek, I was told that “my” buffalo permit might not be available, but Jamy Traut thought he could convince a local chief to find an extra. I need not have worried.
My primary quest was to hunt Cape buffalo with a .416 Taylor. That wildcat was developed by Bob Chatfield-Taylor to get .416 Rigby performance out of standard-length brass. The escapades of the caliber were made famous by John Wootters, an adventurous outdoor writer best known for his Whitetail books. I met John and his wife Jeanie when introduced by former NRA Director Bob Bear. I saw the most magnificent buffalo trophy mounted above John’s stone fireplace. I followed John to his workshop where there were two more trophies, both even bigger. Almost drooling with admiration at their size, I said. “No matter what gun you used, the hole in the end of the barrel just would not be big enough.” John handed me a cartridge. “Yes, it is. It’s a .416 Taylor.” My .375 H&H now appeared smallish compared with the fat .400-grain cartridge I held.
Immediately I promised John I would take a .416 Taylor to Africa. MG Arms converted my 7 Mag, LH, Win CRF M70. John offered his original reamer and whatever else was needed. Kerry O’Day barreled the action, truing it, adding sights and barrel band, bedding the stock with extra epoxy here and there. I installed a mercury recoil reducer and a Weaver 30mm, 1-5 illuminated scope. When sighting from an unweighted Lead Sled, the Taylor produced better than half-inch groups with 350 Barnes TSX loads that Kerry recommended. In 2013 at the January 2013 Dallas Safari Club convention, I formally booked an October 2013 Caprivi hunt with Jamy Traut. Unfortunately, John died just three weeks later – he would share my adventure from a loftier location.
I first saw the Caprivi when trekking by Land Cruiser to a remote camp. We saw hundreds of elephants in Botswana, across the Chobe River. While there, chasing elephant, buffalo, croc, hippo and red lechwe, I became obsessed with getting a large croc, and spent many fruitless days hunting them. Then a week after I left, a 14-year-old girl with a 7-08 took a 14.5 foot croc from “my” blind!
While chasing rogue elephant we spotted a large buffalo herd on an island in the Chobe west of Kasane, claimed that day by active Botswana military in small gunboats. There were a couple of wide-horned hard-bossed Daggas there. Alas, the river was a boundary for nations, a national park, and ethical sportsmen. I hoped the herd would swim north as others had done to escape the overgrazed Chobe Park, but the island held enough forage to last longer than my hunt. I had a buff permit in hand, which was why I booked with Jamy in the first place, though a friend who went south for Namibian leopard leaving me his croc permit. So I was now in a dilemma – croc, or buff, or both.
Jamy suggested we scout buffalo in between the long time spent in two different blinds waiting for the “right” croc. At 115 degrees it was too hot anyway to read my new book about some “Horn” written by a gin-drinking New Yorker. Five days later we were onto a herd of about 150 free-range buffaloes. We walked after them for miles. The sandy, grassless soil on that island was blinding bright with reflective heat hot enough to cook a shoe with you still in it. Around mid-day, the herd lay down under some small bushes that still had a few brown leaves. We flanked the main body but came onto a fringe group resting in and among some other low brush we had not seen while making our approach. We were on a slight rise of an eroded sand dune. No wind. The fringe group, BB gun close, did not move or care. We could see on the very opposite edge of the herd, with sizable cows and young bulls, a rather nice, big, Dagga Boy. He knew we were there. Like a ghost, day in and out he knew, appearing then disappearing only to reappear always at the back of the main group.
That black, mudless, birdless, ghost of a herd bull kept at least one or two cows and a few calves between us. At the distance from me on the low dune to him, maybe only 80 to 100 yards, I set up a few times to take a shot, but nothing. He moved only when the cows moved. The cows moved only when the calves moved too far. Frustratingly, no clear shot could be made. This game went on for hot day after hot day as the herd kept moving, crossing water-filled channels seemingly in a grand circle. Terrain and cover varied on each island, or channel bank. Finally, one night a fisherman came to our tented camp to report that a large herd had moved to a nearby island. He was nervous about their proximity to his hut and those of his village.
Early arrival found us within sight of the back of a westward-moving column. It appeared to be the group we had spent the last several days following. My ghost bull would surely be there, but with 298 extra eyes. These buffalo were way out in the open with plenty of grass to eat, safe from the approach of lions. Worse, the fisherman’s island was pretty bare. Practically no trees, brush or cover existed away from the small village, except for that terrible short sword grass. About a flat as the Makgadikgadi Salt Pans, of Botswana, there was one low relief river meander that crossed about two-thirds of the distance to the buffalo. The minute I saw the setup I knew we would soon be crawling. Crawling is a skill that you need to hunt Africa if you leave your Land Cruiser. Being a masochist helps too. “PH Crawling” is a duck-walk then a butt-n-scoot, then a belly slither. None of it is fun or easy. In the heat I was running out of my most important advantage – attitude.
In Dallas I had told Jamy that I would carry my 10.5 lb Taylor the first 100 miles. On Day 11, at about mile 88, I gave in and handed the rifle to a 20-year-old skinner companion. Four hundred yards later he handed it back for my crawl with Jamy.
Off we went single file at a walk, then a bent-over sneak, then the duck, the butt, and finally the belly. Even though the morning sun was behind us, the blistering heat from the previous day was in that darn grass and in my face and hands. We crawled on and on. In the warm grass it was like standing over the slow heat of a Texas branding fire while waiting for the first spring calf. Jamy, sensing I was not having a great time, whispered jokes and stopped to calibrate the herd’s movement. We were on an intersect vector. Then a mild breeze and the little evaporating dew refreshed the grass – the sweet smell a devil’s lure to go on. We waited to measure wind from where to where. I lay there. “One whiff, and that ghost will know it’s me, and spook,” I thought.
Now, with a steady breeze in our faces, we crawled again. I swore a bit too much at myself. We got within 50 yards of the port stern of a westbound mass of indistinguishable black bodies with a sea of moving legs. Lying there, we whispered about seeing three or four shooters. Jamy commented that the big boy was again at the back. At this point, if I had two permits I would have been tempted to cheat and send a solid through a cow to get him. Of course, Jamy would never hunt with me again if I did. For just a second we would see a glimpse of the big boy’s shoulder or a hump. Cows would be grazing in front and behind. No real moving. Just ever so slow feeding with a lot of heads up and down, always looking. No alarm.
One of the shooters paraded over to check us out. A desirable #2, he was possibly demonstrating that he did not trust whatever was lying on the ground. Although the bull was pawing and snorting, Jamy ignored him, as did the ghost and most of the herd. “Is he worth taking,” I asked. “Do you owe him money?” Jamy laughed. “Wait, and we might get an opening on the bigger guy.”
Waiting seemed endless. Sword grass started to smell like dry, hot, dusty hay, and the herd began to walk a bit, tightening up, wary. The middle-aged, hard-bossed #2 was getting closer and closer. At about 25 yards, he picked up his tempo and lowered his head, bellowing.
Aware that the herd was about to move off and that my persistence was waning, (and not really wanting his client to get stomped), Jamy said that if the snort-and-head-bouncer got any closer, it was OK to shoot #2 before he got real determined. Oh, really?
Number two snorted convincingly. “OK, Now!” I heard Jamy’s whisper. Still prone, I placed a 350 Barnes TSX into the high heart, near the right inside shoulder, quartering upward back somewhere. I did not feel recoil. The buffalo ran in two tight circles then fell over. I elbowed up to send another, but Jamy stopped me. “Well done.” The ghost and his herd stampeded off, but only by about 300 yards, then went back to grazing. Our game scout ran over. “Sniper!” he congratulated me.
We cautiously approached the buffalo to give an insurance shot, but Jamy said it was not needed. I was just grateful I would not have to crawl any more. We stopped for the usual pictures while a small crew from the village came with a cart to collect some meat.
I had accomplished what I had promised John Wootters I would do – hunt Cape buffalo in Africa with a .416 Taylor, though I was sorry not to be able to tell him my version of the hunt. I am not disappointed in the horn size or boss, just that an incredible adventure was over. However, I would have liked to get a clear shot at the ghost. I will to go back, at a cooler time, with better mental stamina and, of course, with another rifle project.
Bill is a conservationist, scientist, and rancher/farmer. He started hunting as a teenager with a Sears 22. The rifle and the hunting process was always the attraction. Currently a contributing editor to World Oil Magazine, Bill works with his wife on education projects in Namibia. As a senior technologist, he has worked over 40 years in U.S. and international research, oil and gas exploration, and production. Bill has been instrumental in several new international ventures, coordinating local and global operations, and has managed one of the petroleum industry’s largest computer facilities.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=” View article in E-ZINE” color=”chino” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Fapr-may-june-2019%2F%23africa-hunting-gazette%2F66-67||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_masonry_media_grid grid_id=”vc_gid:1556113505406-cd14f4f8-2421-7″ include=”21253,21254,21255″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
In October 2017, I got an offer for an all-inclusive hunt for free-range Cape buffalo in Mozambique. The old-fashioned, one-on-one, track, stalk and hunt in the bush.
I had originally met Roche and his wife Ansu in 2017 at an outdoor show in Harrisburg, and had booked a September 2018 plains and buffalo hunt and photo safari with Roche Safaris in South Africa for my wife and I. I hoped to hunt kudu, gemsbok, impala and nyala, followed by a photo safari through the Kruger National Park. Then out of the blue, Roche offered me an end-of-the-year, 2017, all-inclusive hunt in Mozambique with all permits! I had just enough time for him to apply, and I could still make a 10-day hunt before the season closed on 30 November. I was already on vacation for the deer season, and everything just fell into place. We had all kinds of plans and relatives coming in for Thanksgiving, but my wife said that I couldn’t pass up this opportunity, and to go…
Am I lucky or what! She knew that Cape buffalo was on my bucket list, but I never expected a free-range hunt was in my future. All I had to do was get from Pittsburgh to JFK airport in New York.
Fast forward to Mozambique: We started hunting at daybreak, but didn’t see any bull tracks that we could follow. The next couple of days we jumped buffalo in the thick thorny bush two mornings in a row, and walked up on a herd just before dark on the second evening, but could not get on a good bull before dark. Talk about excitement! We paralleled those buffalo in the bush at 50 yards for 30 minutes and set up for a shot several times. It was almost dark, before a huge cow decided to spook the herd. That old adage that a buffalo looks at you like you owe it money is the truth.
I got my buffalo on the third evening (the day before Thanksgiving) using a Ruger guide gun in .375 Ruger, shooting hand loads using 300-grain Swift A Frame bullets and Hornady factory solids. The first shot at 36 yards put him down, and we ran up and I put two more in him to make sure he stayed down. My PH said that the bull would probably be close to 1.2 ton in weight. What a monster! His horns taped 44½ inches across and he had 14½ inch-wide bosses. The next day Roche told me that with him I had killed the biggest buffalo in 10 years, and his wife said it was the highlight of his career. In the three days that I hunted we tracked and hiked a total of 24 miles in 90+F degree heat. (32+C)
All the meat was donated to a couple of villages, the camp staff, and the guards and village at the Mozambique border. No meat is allowed to be exported, and my Cape buffalo hide and horns would only be exported after a few months of quarantine, a process they call dip and ship, to be sure all possible diseases were eradicated.
We stayed in Mozambique and explored the countryside for another three days, visited several villages, and saw a zebra that thought he was a donkey! The day after I shot the buffalo, Roche had wanted to explore some new territory for leopard and crocodiles. We drove for about two hours through the back country to another farm along a river. We found a caretaker, and as our trackers were translating the Portuguese conversation, a zebra came out of the bush about 100 meters from us. Roche asked if we would be allowed to take it. The caretaker said no, that the owner liked this zebra which had started hanging around his donkeys. Suddenly three donkeys appeared, and started in our direction. In just a few minutes the donkeys and zebra were within 20 meters of the truck, completely unafraid, and I got some great pictures. Zebra was not on my list, but I was glad for the opportunity just to see one.
After our Mozambique visit we returned to Roche’s lodge in South Africa where he has a great staff that wait on you hand and foot and are always eager to please. Roche took me to Kruger National park on a photo safari. It’s got to be the world’s best natural zoo, and we saw almost everything, from rhino to warthogs right next to the vehicle, but no big cats.
Other than some squirrel hunting, I gave up my deer season that year, but it was worth it. How can you compare a deer hunt with a buffalo?
Vance grew up in the farm country of western Pennsylvania about 35 miles northwest of Pittsburgh. He was taught how to hunt, trap and fish by his father, Harwood Squires who grew up on farms in central West Virginia. Vance actually started hunting when he was 12 years old, and shot his first whitetail buck when at 16. He and his wife of 42 years now live in Chester, West Virginia. Vance has hunted and fished in Quebec and Ontario, Canada, hunted in Newfoundland Canada for woodland caribou and moose, and in some of the western states for deer, elk, and pronghorn antelope.He has a life membership in the NRA as well as belonging to other sportsmen organizations, and is the leading instructor for Hunter Education for his county.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”chino” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Fapr-may-june-2019%2F%23africa-hunting-gazette%2F58-59||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_masonry_media_grid grid_id=”vc_gid:1556113031145-19fb1411-ba87-2″ include=”21245,21248″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
I am sitting at my computer on a cold Canadian winter’s day trying to recall every minute of our first African hunt. I am inspired by the pictures of our African adventures that adorn the walls, and refer to details from the journal and photo book from our first hunting adventure. That was six years ago…
My wife Carole and I had been on photo safari in Namibia with Louw van Zyl, owner of Track a Trail Safaris as our tour guide. Springbok and impala were the most common animals we saw, and the beautiful markings of these small antelope really inspired us to have them as our first trophies in our living room. Because they were so abundant we assumed we could find a hunting package that included both, and we wanted to hunt with Louw as our PH.
Impala, kudu, gemsbok and warthog were included in Louw’s standard package, but not springbok. Springbok had not been available on the property for several years previously as cheetah were getting under the game fence and had decimated the population. However,
Stephan Jacobs, PH and owner of Aandster Farm where my brother Duane and I would hunt, told Louw we could take a couple of springbok rams for the trophy price or exchange one of the animals in the package. The problem was remedied!
After being close to many fine springbok and impala rams in Etosha National Park we assumed it would be easy to bag trophies of both. We were in for a surprise! Unlike the animals in Etosha that are undisturbed along the roads and at the waterholes, springbok and impala are extremely wary in areas where they are hunted. It took a lot of spotting and careful stalking to get within range, because both species favour open grassland habitats and depend on their exceptional eyesight to avoid predators. Pronghorn in the southern part of Alberta, Canada are reputed to have eyesight equivalent to a person with ten power binoculars. After spending a week trying to get close to springbok and impala, I am convinced that their eyesight is as good!
Aandster Farm in northeastern Namibia is an area of ancient, low-relief sand dunes that have been stabilised for centuries. Much of the land is forested with small trees and dense, thorny scrub. A few old cultivated fields have reverted to open grassland savanna which is maintained in places by periodic burning.
Seven local families work on the game farm and tend livestock on the surrounding Aandster properties.
High fences serve to keep game animals from straying to adjacent livestock properties and help to keep predators and diseases out.
Hunting at Aandster was a thrill. Whether it was spot and stalk in the hunt for springbok and impala, or following Joseph, our gifted Bushman tracker looking for kudu and gemsbok in the thick bush, it was always a challenge.
Much time was spent following Joseph as we hunted kudu in the thick bush. I glassed the open areas with my Bushnell Custom Compact binoculars, and mostly saw springbok and impala. Often their eyes were upon us as we looked at them! But the slightest movement from us had them on the move. Both species, particularly the older rams stayed well away from cover, and wind direction was a problem – on our first attempts we either ran out of cover or were betrayed by a shifting breeze.
Then our luck improved. A small group of springbok with one good ram grazed some distance from the main herd. They looked close enough to the edge of the field to attempt a shot if we were successful with a stalk. We drove about four miles, parked a mile downwind, and began a stalk through the bush. Keeping to the thick cover we got within about 500 yards. From there it was a cautious sneak from one clump of brush to the next every time the herd faced away. At 280 yards, cover was running out, so Louw got me on the shooting sticks.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s a very small target at that distance,” I said.
Gambling on one final sneak we managed to get behind the last shrub, but were still 240 yards away. It was either try a shot or forget it. Back on the sticks I peered through the scope of the .300 Winchester Magnum, following the ram, watching for an open shot. He was always surrounded by ewes and smaller animals. At one point he lay down behind a tree with only his rump showing. I was on the sticks for about twenty minutes, but it seemed like an eternity.
Relaxing in front of the lodge with guest cottages in the background. From the left Duane, Louw and Carole.
While the ram was behind the tree I started shaking so badly that I could not keep the crosshairs on him. I raised my head and took a few deep breaths. Whether I had buck fever or simply could not hold the rifle steady for that long, I do not know. (Almost 60 years ago when I shot my first Canada Goose I definitely had buck fever, but not until after the shooting was over! I still remember hunkering back in the blind with my goose by my side. I was happy but shaking so badly that if another flock had come within range I would have had trouble holding my shotgun. Some memories of magical moments last forever.)
Finally, the ram stood up. With my PH, tracker and my brother for an audience, the pressure was on.
“Make sure the ram is clear of the ewes before you shoot,” Louw kept saying. “Allow an inch for the distance and an inch to the right for wind,” he advised. “The kill zone of a springbok is the size of a saucer.”
At 240 yards I was not convinced I could hit that, let alone by adjusting an inch. You cannot believe the relief I felt when I squeezed the trigger and heard the bullet hit. The ram tried to run with the others, but dropped after eighty yards. With the grassland savanna and a clear Namibian sky as a backdrop I happily posed with my trophy.
A few days later as we casually watched giraffe and a herd of eland from a tree stand, springbok appeared in a burned area a long way off. On the chance that there might be a good ram, my brother and Louw started a long stalk, and I followed far behind. Duane dropped a nice ram with one shot. The springbok has a patch of long white hairs concealed in the brown hair along the back, and when they are alarmed, the white hairs stand erect. Sometimes these hairs lift for a few minutes after an animal dies, and we captured that on photos.
Hunting two on one with Louw, it was my brother’s turn to carry the rifle when we spotted a herd of impala with a good ram. Once more, a long drive got us downwind, and our stalk through open woodland had fair visibility but still plenty of cover. Out of nowhere, impala were suddenly bounding though the bush. We dropped to the ground hoping to be less conspicuous, but I thought the impala had scented us and that was the end of this stalk. But soon the herd was bounding back the other way, only to turn around and repeat the performance. It was just the youngsters playing – what a thrilling sight. Then Louw pointed out a good ram walking toward us, and Duane made a great kneeling shot as it angled away.
It was day six before I got a chance at an impala. Tracking kudu through thick Kalahari Apple-leaf trees we came to the edge of an open field. As the afternoon shadows lengthened we spotted impala grazing with a herd of blue wildebeest far across the field, and Joseph’s sharp eyes picked out a good ram that I could not see!
A long circular stalk of more than a mile got us downwind on the other side of the field. Carefully peeking through the last cover, Louw pointed out the fine ram in the middle of the wildebeest. It was walking slowly, grazing, and with its head down only the top of its back was visible over the low shrub.
I was on the sticks following the impala through the scope and hoping for a shot where I would avoid hitting a wildebeest. After a few minutes, there were no animals behind, but the two in front prevented a shot. Finally, one of the wildebeest moved enough so I could see the spine of the impala just behind the front shoulder. I squeezed the trigger and he dropped on the spot. Louw radioed for the truck and we set up my trophy impala for a few quick photos as the light faded.
The author with a springbok ram on the grassland savanna, Aandster 2012.
Aandster is a great place for those wishing to experience rural life in a remote part of Namibia. Grootfontein, the nearest town is about a two-hour drive. The farm and lodge are totally off grid. Hot water is provided by wood-fired boilers. Lights and freezers run on solar power. Seven native families live and work on the game farm and tend livestock on the adjoining Aandster properties. The native staff from the skinning shed also worked in the machine shop helping to maintain and repair heavy equipment – self-sufficiency is essential when you live that far from services, and everyone learns to be a jack of all trades. Home schooling is the norm for younger children. Those in the upper grades spend the week in Grootfontein and come home for the weekend.
Carole and I had our own private cabin with all the amenities, and evening routine was sipping a glass of Amarula and ice while Louw cooked steaks on the open fire. It was a treat to eat what we shot, blue wildebeest being our favorite.
And now, Africa beckons once more. Carole and I are planning our fifth trip.
Although Aandster is surrounded by a high fence, and some readers might comment that it is only 6,000 ha, I can assure anyone who has not hunted a high-fenced area that is every bit as challenging as hunting in the Canadian arctic where there is not a fence or road for a thousand miles. In 10 days of hunting we never saw an animal near the fence. It would have been impossible to drive an animal toward the fence with two hunters, a PH and tracker. Perhaps if 20 or more beaters were sent through the bush, a hunter could stand along the fence and wait for a shot, but unlikely as that would be, it would be as unethical as shooting from the vehicle, a practice totally taboo at Aandster.
Duane with his springbok displaying the long erect white hairs along its back, Aandster 2012.
Bio
Retired after 40 years in parks and conservation, Archie Landals has hunted for as long as he can remember. He has hunted across his native Alberta, Canada as well as New Zealand, Namibia, South Africa, the western United States and the Canadian Arctic. In 2013 he was awarded the Queen Elizabeth II Diamond Jubilee Medal for his work in conservation. Along with his wife Carole he spends a lot of time in their rustic cabin enjoying the solitude of the Boreal Forest.
