Swazi Hooded Sweatshirt

Oct 12, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F26-27||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Swazi Hooded Sweatshirt
Swazi launches The Hood Sweatshirt

Respected around the globe, award-winning cult hunting clothing brand Swazi Apparel has unveiled a stylish and practical polar fleece – The Hood.

Providing warmth and protection against the elements, the hoody’s stand-out feature is a long zip which makes it quick and easy to take on and off.

Made in New Zealand at Swazi’s factory nestled under the Tararua Mountains, The Hood is made from 280gsm polar fleece. It is long cut to retain warmth, and comes with a handy zipped chest pocket.

Davey Hughes, founder and creative director at Swazi Apparel commented: “I believe a lot of innovation comes from necessity. The Swazi team is made up of a lot of hunters, who are out in the field, wearing our gear all the time, so they understand the requirements for a good outdoor garment. I was camping out on a really windy, cold morning, wearing one of our global favorite garments, the Swazi Bush Shirt which has been in our stable for 23 years, when I came up with the idea to add a hood. The Hood was designed to act as an extra collar, stopping the wind going down the back of your neck, and that’s where the name came from.”

RRP: $125
Sizes: S-XXXL
Colors: Black, Olive or Tussock Green

For more information, visit www.swazi.co.nz[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F26-27||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]

The Highest of Highs…

Oct 12, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F46-47||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]The Highest of Highs…
By PH Jofie Lamprecht

I met the Butlers for the first time at a hunting show in the U.S. Our paths crossed again at the 95th Heym invitational at the maker’s rifle factory in Germany in 2013. At this event I acted as translator between what was dubbed “Team America” and the predominantly Bavarian attendees. We spent hours touring the factory, choosing blanks of wood, visiting engravers in their cavernous-home workshops and – the most fun of all – shooting a variety of, and mostly large-caliber, Heym double rifles.

May 2018 found us hunting in cattle country, in the Waterberg area of Namibia. The thick bush below was shadowed by the 1000-foot-high red sandstone cliffs of the Waterberg plateau in the background. It’s one of the biggest privately owned cattle operations in Namibia where leopards are not persecuted because of their value for hunting, and there is a large and healthy free-ranging population. There is also an abundance of other game. Losses of cattle are tolerated, offset by hunters’ dollars. With a National Park as its eastern border, and a cat sanctuary which is also unfenced on the western border – this is the ideal place to hunt leopard legally in Namibia with some success. With the very restricted tag system in place in this country, sustainability is assured through controlled utilization.

So there we are, Marc Butler and me in the late afternoon sun, sneaking a mile and a half to the leopard blind, when I realize I have left the tripod for the rifle in the truck. “Idiot!” I said to myself. We had several baits out and I wanted to make sure we had this stable shooting platform quickly available if we had another good cat on bait. I quickly went to get it, then headed back to Marc. As I walked down the bush path, I saw Marc raise his double rifle and shoot, just 200 yards from the leopard blind.
I hoped and prayed that if he had shot the leopard, he made a good offhand shot…

When I got there, “G” and Marc were not tensely following the trail of whatever it is they shot at, but casually walking through the bush with rifles slung over their shoulders. “G” as we affectionately call him, is our resident master-hunting-guide, full of local knowledge, and our pre-baiter who has a passion for leopard hunting. He’s a valuable asset to our hunting team. My fears subsided – they had shot at something that would not scratch them back too badly.
Leaving the tripod in the road I followed them into the bush. The blood trail and spoor is obvious – warthog.

After fifty yards I saw the pig, dead, with large .375 flanged wounds on his flanks. But we already had plenty of bait. What the hell? Then I walked up close and saw what they had seen – a monster warthog boar.
Marc turned to me with a smile…“I hope you are not too mad at me?”
I shrugged. “It’s your hunt.” I had no better response. “G” and I dragged the trophy-worthy brute to the road, and iPhone pictures were hastily taken. We left the pig there for later collection and continued to the leopard blind.

In the blind, our breathing calmed. Sweat dried. We buttoned down the last three air vents at about 17:00 – reading, listening to eBooks or napping. Pied babblers (an excitable bird that goes wild when anything is out of place) went wild close to the bait. A minute later, like magic, a leopard appeared from the thick bush. The tension in the little blind increased by 200%. The sun still shone hot and bright in the late afternoon. Cautiously the elegant feline looked around and circled the shadowed tree. We hardly breathed. It was a small female. For 90 minutes we had the pleasure of watching her feeding, jumping a little, falling, resting, with ear-scratching and other catlike antics. As shooting light passed, we slowly left the blind after an exciting afternoon without sight of our big tom.

Early waking at 3 a.m. came all too quickly. Coffee for me, a Coke for Marc. Our eyes were glued to the bright LED bar of light that cut our way open to the blind. By 4:30, after a walk in pitch-darkness with a sliver of new moon, we sat like an old couple, legs under blankets, huddled to keep warm behind the false safety of our blind. We waited. Around 5:30 we heard it. Heavy scratching and a labored climb as something cumbersomely made its way to our bait. Silence. Then the unmistakable sounds of ribs and other bones being crushed by a heavy jaw. Slowly optics were raised to try and see through the veil of darkness. Marc strained through his scope. Nothing. Just blackness. For an hour of agonizing suspense, we could hear what we thought was our quarry, but could not see it. Just the cracking of bones assured us that there was still something, something substantial, in the tree.
A female leopard jaw is not strong enough to break large bones; this is left to the males – or brown hyena in this area – but our bait was hung too high for hyena.

With legal shooting light being 30 minutes before actual sunrise, (and in my opinion ethical actual shooting light only being 10 minutes after this), the minutes felt like hours. The birds’ chirping signaled the breaking of dawn, the francolin rejoicing having made it through the night, as the gray sky slowly lightened to pink.

One could just barely make out the bait tree, movement at the bait, and not much more. Certainly not a hyena there, unless they started climbing trees! No sexing or size could be determined yet. My mind swung back and forth between success – temptation to say, “If you can see him, shoot him!” – and ethics: “If Marc shoots through the bait, surely he will hit some vital of the leopard.”

We waited. Minutes ticked slowly by. The slightest noise or mistake now meant failure. A bad shot could spell plenty of stitches. And then, like smoke, the leopard was out of the tree, and floated through the yellow-grey grass in front of the blind at an angle towards us.

No shot. Our blind was perched on the bank of a small riverbed, a steep cliff and dry waterfall in front of us, with the bait tree, and now the leopard, on the top of the cliff. The leopard was separated by what is called the B.O.B. principal – bait, obstacle, blind. We were higher than the bait, and from my angle I had full view of the leopard below us. He walked slowly, tail sickled in the air – but there was something about his gait. He had a severe limp. Front left. Sore foot? Thorn? Fight? Who knew? We might never know. Marc was constrained by the blind, having just a peephole that his rifle was aiming through, with no way of moving the rifle’s barrel more than an inch.
However, I had a full view of the leopard, now stretched out at 40 yards below our blind like the sphinx. There was the temptation to move the tripod, or to have Marc stand or crouch in the blind to try and get an unsteady shot off, but the consequences outweighed the thought.
“Wait!” I silently mouthed to Marc. “WAIT!” Necks straining, eyes wide, it was hard to breathe.

Sunrise was officially at 7:15. Then at 7:09 the leopard made a mistake. After rolling, lying on his back, stretching, yawning, scratching and doing everything a cat does, it was time for another helping of breakfast. The leopard suddenly got up and started walking. I put my hand on Marc leg, the contact like a shot of electricity.
“Get ready.” We held our breath. The leopard rounded the tree and clambered up the rough bark to his feast. As he reached with one paw to pull the 200-pound warthog closer, he exposed his rosette flank.

“Yes!” The tranquility of the morning was shattered. With a growl the leopard fell from the tree and disappeared into the dense bush. The thrill of the hunt, the resounding feeling of achievement seemed to reverberate in the blind. Silence. Wait. And then follow up. I took out my iPhone and started a timer with trembling fingers. We had 10 minutes. More light, more time for the bullet to have its effect.

“Shot good?” Marc just nodded like a teenager having gotten his first love-letter from a pretty girl. (Dawn who he later married).

As the light increased, I looked at the timer at least once a minute. Finally the time was up, and it was time to face the heat
in this kitchen – time to clean up. With stiff legs and backs we got out of the blind, checked and rechecked our Heym rifles, Marc with his flanged .375 double, and me carrying a .300 Win. Mag. double.

We edged across the river, atop the cliff towards the bait tree, looking for sign. Lung blood on a nearby raisin bush indicated the right direction. We followed, Marc and I flanking “G” who squatted and pointed. There, 40 yards away lay the leopard.

It is experiences like these that draw us back to the bush; it is indeed what keeps some of us in it. The challenges, the low lows and the highest of highs. Where else in the world today does one get these pure feelings of euphoria?

It is the privilege that we hunters have, in the seemingly selfish pursuit of our passion, of saving Africa’s wildlife with a value-for-value system that protects free-ranging populations of Africa’s wildlife.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F46-47||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17706,17707,17708,17709,17710,17711,17712,17713,17714″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row]

THE MOYOWOSI MAULER

Oct 12, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F40-41||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]THE MOYOWOSI MAULER
By George Gehrman

The drone of the Cessna 206 was getting monotonous. We’d been in the air for some time on a flight from Arusha in Tanzania to Wengert-Windrose’s camp in the South Moyowosi concession, far to the west of the country. PH Natie Oelofse was in the process of learning to fly, and was at the controls getting in some flight time. Three hours after departing Arusha, the plane dipped down over a broad, green plain bisected by a wide river gleaming in the sunlight – the Moyowosi in the remote west central region of Tanzania.

“So what do you think about this Africa?” asked Natie with a broad grin.
“Pretty impressive,” I replied. As we descended to the landing strip, herds of buffalo could be seen, along with vast numbers of topi and zebra. A line of gray toward the horizon was a herd of elephant filing along to the river. We weaved and bobbed a bit as we lowered towards the ground. Turned out Natie was quite adept in the air, but he still needed some practise on his landings!

Natie had been after me for some time to get away from the southern Africa countries where I’d been hunting, and see his “real” Africa in Tanzania. I had to admit that what I’d seen so far in the Masailand was impressive enough, but the wildness and remoteness of this area could take one’s breath away. Camp lay about one hour’s drive into the miombo forest away from the airstrip. Game of many species stood watching, or sometimes bolting off into the cover as we drove by. The camp was typical East African style – sleeping tents with an en suite toilet and shower facility on concrete slabs covered with thatch roofs and surrounded by reed walls. There were hard-packed walkways between the various sections of the camp which consisted of a kitchen, large open-air dining area, and, of course, a fire ring surrounded by chairs. The camp itself was situated under trees around a natural spring which attracts numerous animals, including elephants from time to time. Everything out here is BIG: the Moyowosi South hunting concession covers over 1,200 square miles.

The order of the day was Cape buffalo, and not just any buff. I’d already taken one over 40 inches, and wanted a true old Dagga Boy with character to show what kind of life it had lived. At this time of the year, early October, just as the rains start, the huge herds of buffalo on the flood plains start to break up, some with the old bulls heading off in the miombo scrub.

After a great dinner of roan steak, it was time to make a plan. The resident PH of the Fish Eagle camp, Wayne Hendry, suggested that we follow a trail along the edge of the flood plain of the river and check for tracks of the bulls as they moved off the open areas. And so, early the next morning Natie and I headed out along the track we came in on the day before. We’d hardly gotten a good start when Natie braked to a halt. Warthog! It stood still as a statue in the middle of the track ahead of us – difficult to see in the deep shadow of the forest and the gloom before sunrise.
“Want him?” Natie whispered. “He’s huge.” He was indeed the largest warthog I’d ever seen and I did want him, but declined the shot since I didn’t want to take a chance of alarming any buff that could be nearby. I’ve regretted that decision ever since! We broke out of the forest just as life on the river plain was waking up. We stopped and glassed for a bit, but no buff, and so we continued on the trail along the edge of the flood plain. It was only a short while before the trackers spotted buffalo tracks – three bulls crossing our trail and heading into the bush. The hunt was on!

It was vintage buffalo tracking. The going was slow as there was still a lot of dead grass in the bush – the trackers would lose the tracks in the grass in the open areas, then pick them up again as they moved through the scrub across bare patches of ground. Every stop for a suspected glimpse of our quarry heightened the tension. An hour passed and the sign became increasingly fresh.
Then the adrenaline rush as the lead tracker dropped to a knee and pointed ahead – he’d seen them. More accurately, he’s seen bits and pieces of them, just a black spot there and there in the brush ahead. And they know where we are, as the breeze in the trees is squirreling around every which way. Natie used his binoculars to try to sort them out, but we were pinned down where we were. They moved away a short distance and we sneaked into a new position, but I still hadn’t got a look at them.
“They’re all good bulls,” Natie whispered, “but we won’t have a chance to pick the best under the conditions we’re in.” He checked again then whispered urgently, “There, crossing ahead of us, take the last one!”
“What last one? I can’t see them!”
“Just there, 30 yards out.” At the very last moment the scene jumped into focus and I saw a buffalo moving to my right across a short opening in the trees. One fast shot from my .375 H&H and they were gone, disappearing into the thick brush.
“How was the shot?” asked Natie
“A bit high and too far back, but was definitely a hit into the chest area,” I told him. The trackers confirmed hearing a hit that sounded solid. We waited for a good 20 minutes, then headed off toward where we’d last seen the buff. We came into an open area and moved slowly ahead towards another grove of trees. We hadn’t quite reached the edge of the trees when Natie froze, and we saw that my bull was down. But a second bull had stayed with him and stood guard. The guard bull broke, and my bull was on his feet and off on a run.

Natie threw “Baby”, his .470 Nitro Express double, into action and I added my .375 into the fray. We took off running after the bull, dodging through the thorn bush and trees in a manner that would do a pro running back proud. We slammed on the brakes as he came into the clear for a moment and got off a second volley toward him. He disappeared into some thick stuff for a moment, and when he reappeared, he staggered and went down. We approached, and after the obligatory insurance shot, we went up to him. My first shot was right where I called it, passing through the top of the lungs. He would have died from it eventually, but it would have taken a while.

He was a splendid bull and exactly what I was looking for. His horns spread nearly 44 inches and carried heavy, thick bosses. But it was upon closer examination that we discovered what a tough life this old boy had led. His ears were tattered and torn from various scrapes with lions and sharp horn tips of younger buff bulls. On top of his back was a large scabbed-over area, still with an open wound in the middle, signs of an attack by lions some months earlier. But it wasn’t until he was being skinned that the final passage was written about him. Noisy chatter from the normally silent skinners indicated that something unusual was going on. The head tracker came up to Natie and me, carrying a soft iron ball which they’d dug out of his neck, evidence of a poacher’s failed attempt to kill him many years earlier. Measured back home I found the ball to be .75 inches in diameter and it weighed an even one ounce.
Truly, this bull was a mauler.

From: George Gehrman [mailto:trackingafrica307@gmail.com][/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F40-41||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17693,17694,17695,17696,17697,17698,17699,17700″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row]

One for the Road

Oct 12, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F144-145||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]One for the Road,
Wieland

THE GREATEST

The subject came up, as subjects will, around a table at the shooting club. One of the denizens wondered aloud who might be considered the greatest hunter in history. We’d been talking about Africa, so I presumed he meant Africa.

“Selous?” he asked. “Bell? Harry Selby, maybe?”

This is a question for which there is no right answer. And anyway, what exactly are we talking about? The greatest professional hunter? The greatest hunting guide? The greatest ivory poacher? Who shot the most lions?

A few years ago in Alaska, a guide was telling me about a character he’d met. He was an enormously fat fellow, but also enormously wealthy, having grown fat in both senses on the proceeds of a chain of restaurants. It was this man’s goal, I was told, to be known as the greatest sheep hunter in history. To that end, he kept a bunch of outfitters on retainer, watching out for big sheep. When they found one they’d call him, hoist him up the mountain somehow, and he would pop the ram.

It seemed to me then, and it seems now, that such bizarre behavior would qualify you for many labels, but “greatest sheep hunter” is not one of them.

It has generally been acknowledged that Frederick Courteney Selous would be on anyone’s short list as the greatest of African hunters, but so would Sir Samuel Baker. These were men who roamed on their own, explored territory previously unseen, and were independent and self-sufficient to the point of folly. They killed for meat, but they also killed for specimens to take back to museums, to show the strange and heretofore unknown (by Europeans, at least) mammals, birds, and reptiles they encountered in their explorations.

Much of the exploration of Africa took place during the Victorian era, and if the Victorians had one dominant trait, it was an absolute passion for learning. By extension, this also meant reading. In an age before radio, television, and the highly dubious benefits of the Internet, the best source of information was books. At the same time, many of the men who ventured forth to open up unknown lands and extend the Empire were well-educated sons of prominent families. Naturally, having spent years in the wilderness, many returned home to write about their experiences. The years between 1850 and 1914 saw a flood of books on Africa and African hunting, with writers ranging from men who had made one hesitant safari to some who had spent their lives in the African bush.

It’s no coincidence that the names most commonly raised when the question of “the greatest” rears its ugly head are men who wrote books about themselves and their experiences. Sir Samuel Baker was a prolific writer, and a good one; he published ten books in his lifetime. Selous wrote a similar number, while Walter Dalrymple Maitland Bell wrote three. Bell, Baker, and Selous titles have become classics of African hunting literature, and some of their individual experiences are recounted third- or fourth-hand by people who know little else about them. One should add, in haste, that Baker, Selous, and Bell were the real thing and, if anything, their books understated their accomplishments.

Conversely, there were many great hunters who never wrote a word for public consumption, and their names are almost lost to history. William Cotton Oswell was one. Oswell was an early hunter in southern Africa who was one of the great gentlemen of his time, respected to the point of reverence by his peers. He accompanied David Livingstone on his legendary trek across the Kalahari to “discover” Lake Ngami; in fact, Oswell partly financed the expedition, was its main source of food through hunting, and most of the credit for finding Lake Ngami, and coincidentally discovering the southern sitatunga, should go to him. Instead, Livingstone — a man whose ego was easily as great as his undoubted virtues — took the credit, and Oswell allowed him to do so. When Livingstone’s body was returned to England in 1874 for interment at Westminster Abbey, Oswell was one of the pallbearers.

Oswell’s name undoubtedly belongs on the same list as Baker and Selous, yet most people, including most hunters, have never heard of him. But never mind who might or might not be the greatest of African hunters; why would we want to try to name one? What does it matter whether Bell was somehow more notable than Baker, or vice versa? Or if FC Selous out-ranked, on some artificial scale, John “Pondoro” Taylor?

There are no firm criteria for measuring anyone’s hunting accomplishments unlike, for example, baseball. Baseball is the most minutely recorded game, in terms of individual statistics, that the world has ever seen. In theory, at least, it should be simple to add up the numbers and name the greatest baseball player in history. Yet no one has been able to do that without provoking endless argument.

The closest we come to such statistics are the record books of big game, and occasionally someone suggests adding up the number of entries some guy has in Rowland Ward or the Safari Club record book, or counting how many number-one heads he has to his credit. Since neither Rowland Ward nor SCI are either compulsory or comprehensive, this suggestion is pretty weak. Many people treasure their entries in “the book” and religiously submit every post-puberty mammal they deck, but since record-book entries are voluntary, and methods of measurement and divisions of species variable and arbitrary, such entries prove absolutely nothing one way or the other.
It would seem to me that the only people qualified to even have an opinion on this are professional hunters themselves, and by that I mean hunting guides, game wardens, ivory hunters and the like. Probably the man who has researched all of this more carefully than anyone is Brian Herne, himself a professional hunter and author (Uganda Safaris and White Hunters.) As far as I can tell, even in the latter, he does not offer an opinion as to who was “the greatest.” Possibly, he didn’t want to make enemies; more likely, he couldn’t really say. Or, and maybe most probably, he just didn’t want to get into endless, pointless arguments.

After his first safari in 1951, Robert Ruark seemed bent on establishing Harry Selby as the best white hunter (the term then in use) of his generation, and one of the best of all time. He was certainly one of the best then practising the trade, but a dozen others were equally good, if not better in some ways. Ernest Hemingway felt the same way about Philip Percival, but he also admired Bror Blixen. It’s natural to hero-worship your first PH, but as you get to know others, the waters get somewhat murky. That happened with both Hemingway and Ruark.

Another way of looking at this question is to ask, of all the great African hunters in history, who would you most like to go on safari with?

Having thought about that, long and hard, here’s my answer: Put me on a boat down the Nile with Florence von Sass, the second wife of Sir Samuel Baker. Lean a Rigby rising-bite against my deck chair, put a tall gin and tonic in my hand, and I don’t care if I shoot anything. In fact, let me go out on a limb: Purely on the basis of his having been married to such a woman, I’d give the title to Sir Samuel. Florence von Sass was a woman to stop the heart.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F144-145||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Neck, Legs, and Fancy Feathers!

Oct 12, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F90-91||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Neck, Legs, and Fancy Feathers!
By Frank Berbuir

I am at full draw with my bow, highly focused and concentrated, and the sight pin is placed on the spot where the vital area is when I smoothly release the trigger…

But let us start at the beginning. It is November again, cold, grey and rainy in my home town and country, and the desire for Africa is tearing me. So after some phone calls and arrangements, at end of the month I found myself back again on a plane to Namibia. After having been there in April, it is the second time that year.
Having hunted several times in northern Namibia, I was bound for the second time to the south, not far from a small village called Maltahöhe and very close to the Kalahari Desert.
During the 250 miles drive south from Windhoek airport to our hunting destination, I enjoyed the diversified landscapes and settled in to being back in Africa again.

As always in Namibia we had a hearty welcome in our camp after our arrival, and enjoyed relaxing, a chat, and having an ice-cold Savanna Dry Premium Cider or Windhoek Lager.
Initially this time I was going for springbok which are numerous in southern Namibia, and for some reasons have big trophy racks as well. So we made plans about where to go to hunt these medium-sized brown and white antelope of southwestern Africa.
Because of the rough terrain and open veld, stalking was quite challenging and therefore unsuccessful for a couple of days, so we decided to hunt from a stone blind near a waterhole.
Our hunt started at mid-afternoon when we headed to the blind and, regrettably, spooked an old and very good warthog – what a pity. But that is life.

It was pretty warm (approx. 38°C or 100°F) being close to the Kalahari, with only a moderate breeze. We were happy when we reached the shade of the blind. Unfortunately nothing happened except bird watching, when francolins, pigeons and crimson-breasted gonoleks (Rotbauchwürger / Lanarius atrococcineus) appeared. After sunset we returned to the bakkie – our Land Rover – and were driving back when I saw a bunch of ostriches along our route. “Can ‘Mr Big Bird’ be hunted as well?” I asked my PH, Christian.
“Yes, you can hunt them and the meat is excellent, and would make a nice addition for our menu, and we could sell it,” he told me. “But do you think you can do it with bow and arrow? It is not that easy to shoot an ostrich.”
“I think it is possible, and if I do not try we will not know,” I said.

During our tasty dinner with excellent eland steaks, the idea of hunting an ostrich would not get out of my mind.

The next morning, out of bed early at four-thirty, and after a shower, a quick coffee and rusks, we were on the old Landy heading back to the blind. It was still dark and cold when we sat and contemplated what the day would bring. When the first sunlight gleamed over the hills and brightened up the landscape, and the birds began their dawn singing as jackals howled not far away, we felt fully compensated for the early wake up. At about 7:00 a.m. two young male gemsboks strolled to the water for a sip. They were unaware of us and relaxed, and I recorded some nice video sequences before they left.

Roughly half an hour later a young springbok ram sneaked up. He was alone, about 60 yards from the waterhole, and he checked out the scenery cautiously before he also came slowly to the water for a drink. As I was zooming in to video him, I noticed a shadow fall across his face, and he jumped back, because all of a sudden five ostriches clustered near the waterhole, and one of the big birds stood close to the young ram, chasing him off the water. Unbelievable – we did not hear or see them coming.

The springbok went off, and I gave the camera slowly to Christian to continue with the filming.
Holy cow – well, not a cow, but an ostrich rooster – at 28 yards distance. My blood pressure nearly went through the roof. In slow motion I put my hand around the birdseye maple grip of my bow where the strong carbon arrow with the broadhead was already nocked in, and picked it up.
The male ostrich’s head was going up and down to drink while the four others were waiting a few yards behind him. If I wanted to have a chance to shoot him I had to do it now. But where is the shooting or kill zone on an ostrich? A broadside shot is absolutely no option because his massive muscular legs are covering the vitals in the small body. A shot on the head is mostly what is executed when hunting them with a rifle. But I was thinking about a nice trophy shoulder mount, so did not want to shoot at the head and destroy it, and moreover shooting on this continually moving body part could have ended in an escaping ostrich if I missed, and the chance would be gone.

“Aim at the spot where the neck merges in the throat and into the chest,” Christian whispered. “It is a small spot, you have to hit, and do not shoot in the chest because there is the sternum or breast bone which is extremely tough and the arrow would probably not penetrate.”
Ok, this was a real challenge, because the aiming spot was fairly small, rather like trying to hit a small beer coaster that is going slightly up and down.
So I drew my 71 lbs bow and settled the sight pin directly on his throat between the neck and chest.
At the right moment when his head was in the top position and the bird stood completely still to swallow his sip, I released my arrow and it flew straight into the point I aimed on with a bone-cracking noise. The arrow went completely into the ostrich and you could only see the nock and a bit of fletch sticking out. Wow, that was impressive.
The big bird flapped his wings, tottered about 15 yards, and fell down dead. Only then did the four others go away.

What an amazing experience. I was still a bit shaky when Christian threw his floppy hat in the sand and back-slapped me, saying: “Great shot Frank! Unbelievable! You made it.”
We waited ten minutes till the other ostriches were out of sight before we stepped out of the blind to the bird. The arrow had fully penetrated the chest and vitals and stuck into the hamstring muscle of his right thigh – amazing what bow and arrow can execute. We took some pictures before Christian went to get the car, and we loaded the bird.

Back in camp the slaughtering brought some awesome ostrich haunches, and two days later we enjoyed some tasty steaks. There is nothing more worthwhile than having your own hunted food on the plate. Most of the meat was sold afterwards to restaurants, and the trophy is now an extraordinary addition as a shoulder mount in my trophy room. I also have some lovely cognac-colored leather, and a nice belt made of the shinbone skin.
Luckily, during this memorable trip I also took a fine springbok trophy ram with bow and arrow as intended, but that would be another story.

Once again the “Virus Africanus” brought me back to the Dark Continent and gave me a wonderful time.
Take care, “Waidmannsheil”, always good hunting and “Alles van die beste”

It was in Namibia, 2004 when I first got acquainted with these flightless birds native to Africa. Long necked and legged, the ostrich is the largest living species of bird, laying the largest eggs. It can run at up to about 70 km/h or 43 mph, the fastest land speed of any bird, and we checked this out when we drove behind them and they started to run. They held their running speed of 41 miles per hour beside the vehicle for quite a while.

The ostrich’s diet consists mainly of plant matter. It lives in nomadic groups of five to 50 birds. When threatened, the ostrich will either hide itself by lying flat against the ground, or run away. If cornered, it can attack with a kick of its powerful legs. Mating patterns differ by geographical region, but territorial males fight for a harem of two to seven females. The long neck and legs keep the head up to nine feet above the ground, and their eyes of about 2 inches diameter, shaded from sunlight above with long eyelashes, are said to be the largest of any land vertebrate. Their eyesight is their prime asset for spotting predators at a great distance.
However, the head and bill are relatively small for the bird’s huge size, and it is said that they are not the smartest creatures. Ostriches usually weigh from 139–320 pounds, or as much as two adult humans. The feathers of adult males are mostly black, with white primaries and a white tail. Females and young males are greyish-brown and white. The head and neck of both male and female ostriches is nearly bare. The skin varies in color depending on the subspecies, with some having light or dark-gray skin and others having pinkish or even reddish skin. The strong legs of the ostrich are unfeathered and show bare skin. Though most birds have four toes on each foot, the ostrich has just two on each foot, with the nail on the larger, inner toe resembling a hoof, while the outer toe has no nail. The adaptation enables swift running, useful for escaping from predators.
The six-foot plus wingspan is used in mating displays and to shade chicks. The feathers lack the tiny hooks that lock together the smooth external feathers of flying birds, and so are soft and fluffy and serve as insulation. Ostriches can tolerate a wide range of day and night temperatures which it controls using its wings to cover the naked skin of the upper legs and flanks to conserve heat, or leaving them bare to release heat. The wings also function as stabilizers to give better maneuverability when running -the wings are actively involved in rapid braking, turning and zigzag maneuvers. The decorative feathers are generally used as feather dusters, the skin for leather products, and the low-cholesterol meat is marketed commercially around the world. The lifespan of an ostrich can be up to 40–45 years.

Equipment:
Bow: 71# Bowtech Tribute
Sight: G5 Optix ME Sight
Arrow Rest: Trophy Ridge Drop Away Rest
Stabilizer: SVL Camo Stabilizer
Release: Scott Wildcat
Arrow: Carbon Express Maxima Hunter 350 Arrow
Broadhead: G5 Tekan II mechanical
Clothes: Sniper Africa Camo
Optics: Zeiss Victory 10 x 40 & Leupold RX-III Rangefinder[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F90-91||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17619,17620,17621,17622,17623,17624,17625,17626,17627,17628,17629″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

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