Nov 23, 2017 | Hunting News, News
Double or Nothing Elephant
By Bill Head, Byron Hart, Rob Blake
River view of two Botswana bulls, in Namibia!
We were motionless, adrenalin running, hearts pounding, standing by our elephants after all that excitement and shooting, trying to take in what had just happened, not wanting the experience to go away. The years of preparation and planning had resulted in a chaotic but incredible 12-second sequence. How did I get myself into this danger, when all I wanted was to participate in an international conservation event?
I hoped the memory would not fade. Well, it did, and surprisingly each of us remember that day very differently. Because I am a campfire cowboy where it’s sometimes compulsory to exaggerate, I offer my version last, after the African and the former Californian.
The facts according to the PH: I was asked to guide a safari with Jamy Traut, October 2013. Jamy’s two hunting clients had booked a double elephant hunt in the Zambezi Region (formerly Caprivi) of Namibia. Texans, Rob and Bill, lifelong friends and hunting buddies, having hunted most places together, decided to come to Africa to hunt their first elephant.
Jamy’s Kasika concession is directly across the river from Kasane in Botswana, a popular tourist destination for Victoria Falls where folks like us are incorrectly considered poachers. The confluence of the Zambezi and Chobe rivers, with lots of surface water, back waters, channels and swamps, is an area known as the Eastern Floodplains.
The two hunters alternated every day, one hunting party cruising the rivers and channels by boat, the other driving around looking for the big grey pachyderms. We walked among and between them in the tall reeds. The idea on those first days was to accustom hunters to being near elephants and “practice” shot placement at every opportunity. It became apparent that there was a primary group of 18 elephant bulls that preferred the riverside tourist area by day (directly in full view of the numerous tourist safari lodges on the Botswana side), and only moved to the game-management area by night. There were two interesting bulls in this group, always close to each other. We could only approach this group to about 100 yards by truck, but to within about 15 yards by boat, along with many tourist-laden boats. We drifted the boat past them repeatedly, scoping out two nice bulls. Rob and I were quietly discussing shot placement on the various angles of all the bulls standing there, while keeping rifles and hunting paraphernalia out of sight; not an easy task in a tiny five-seater boat towered over by double-decker ferries.
Glassing buffalo among the elephants from behind the only tree for miles.
One evening, we saw the group of bulls moving back towards the hunting area, but the two biggest bulls were not there. Eventually they appeared about 200 yards behind the rest, but we could only just see them through the reeds. It was going to be tight – light was fading, the boundary still a few hundred yards off, the other 16 bulls in between us, no cover… Eventually Martha, Rob’s wife, called a halt saying she was not comfortable with the situation, meaning walking up on elephants near dark in tall grass was a poor idea to her.
Discussing with Jamy’s group, a plan was formulated: 04.00 up; 04.20 coffee; 04.45 depart camp for the Chobe River and the boat. We docked the boat on the edge of the two zones as day was breaking, climbed up the bank and saw the group about a mile away, slowly heading back to the river. We walked in together, hunters, PHs, trackers, game scouts and Jamy’s PH apprentice Kabousie. Again there were only 16 bulls – the two biggest could not be seen. Closer yet at 200 yards, suddenly we saw them both, sleeping on the ground with only a grey mass and one tusk protruding above the grass. The morning sun was on the horizon. The two stood up to follow the group when we were only 25 yards from them. Rob, having drawn the longest straw was first, and he and I moved in to about 18 yards when his bull saw us and turned face-on. Rob’s .458 Lott barked; the bull dropped on the spot with a perfect frontal brain shot, landing on his haunches in an upright position. We’d discussed about immediately reloading and putting a second one into the chest of the elephant as back-up. But this was not going to work, because from our position we could only see a giant head immediately in front of us followed by a massive grey body protruding out behind. Thankfully so – had we done this, Bill’s elephant would have been long gone.
While this whole five-second episode took place, Jamy and Bill moved about 20 yards to the right, catching the attention of their bull who was alerted by the shot. It took a few steps towards them. The other 16 younger bulls moving 40 yards off to the right were in full flight. Only Bill’s bull remained and confronted the hunters. The .470 NE spoke, the shot just missing the brain. The bull shook his head, spun round and headed towards his fallen comrade. Jamy’s double jammed on its second shot, so he put in some insurance. The bull held up just behind the other, turning back to face the hunters. Bill pulled the second barrel, and the elephant went down, right behind the first. It could not have worked out better! We all stood in silence, absorbing what had just happened, then as the adrenalin drained, joy, and absolute excitement followed for hours on end. One cannot begin to describe that moment.
It just so happened that the bull that Rob hunted, had shorter, thicker tusks that had been favored by Bill. The longer-tusked elephant had been favored by Martha and was supposed to be Rob’s. It didn’t really matter who shot whichever bull – two lifelong friends had hunted their first elephant together, and had hunted two elephant friends. A special moment.
“I wanted that one!”
He shot my bull? The plan changed with the first shot.
Rob visualizes the “Poli Poli Bulls”
“Stand up and confront your bull!” my PH whispers at dawn on the Caprivi flood plain, after a knee-shredding 300 yard crawl. We are downwind of 18 elephant bulls. Bill and his PH lie just eastward hoping for a chance at an old askari bull.
My vision narrows with each step forward. At 15 yards the old bull senses me, shuffles to face me with raised head, outstretched trunk, and flared ears. We look into each other’s eyes… “Take him!” I don’t hear the shot. Instead, the ground rumbles as my bull drops straight down and the herd stampedes toward the Chobe River.
“Are you reloaded? Don’t shoot! Lie down!” The askari bull now faces us to check on his fallen companion, instead of stampeding with the rest of the herd. My hunting partner runs forward and takes a shot. His bull whirls to rejoin his fallen companion, and is now focused on us. “When he comes, WE WILL SHOOT!” My PH is agitated, his rifle shouldered. We exhale as Bill’s next shot drops the bull. The African sun brings a bittersweet morning as we sit with the two bulls, sharing their last sunrise.
Often I think about sharing that sunrise with our two bulls. I also remember the following morning when our Game Guard, took my hand and gave heartfelt thanks for the meat which fed his village. I then asked him what elephant tasted like. With a puzzled look he replied, “Like elephant.” At which point Jamy burst into laughter – after all what answer should I have expected! Martha still has her heart set on some long, symmetrical ivory.
Rob’s view at the shots, a bit close.
“Cowboy. Practice Counts!”
I was not looking for elephant when we booked at the DSC Annual meeting, but Rob was. When Jamy mentioned the cost of a conservation bull, my wife immediately signed me up. Acquiring a single trigger .470 NE double cost me my Jeep Wrangler. I practiced shooting weekly. I walked to the back of my place, threw up sticks, and took two shots over open sights, scaring the heck out of my neighbours. I ended up not having time for sticks.
Stalking the same herd, Rob preferred one elephant, but Martha another. The elephants decided for us. The PH’s plan worked, as the elephants were close to a mile from the river. Important to the hunt, both elephants and lodges were concealed by morning river fog. We marched single file for a while, when Jamy turned and asked, “Can you crawl?” The crawl turned into a belly scoot. The sword grass was wet and brutal.
Farm raider the day before. Note the red Coke can [filled with rocks] used to make noise and “scare” the elephant.
As we crawled among the herd, the two large bulls were lying down while younger bulls around us were watching, but not alarmed. However, I was! A day earlier we had come upon a dead croc in these same weeds wearing a deep elephant foot print in the middle of its back. The younger bulls began moving, some heading towards the river. The big boys rose. We had to act, or would have nothing if they made it to that exclusion zone.
I rationalized that Rob would shoot, the rest would take off and I would spend more days to get an elephant. Those days turned into seconds. Rob and Byron stood up at the same instant as Jamy and I. Time stood still. Rob shot, no sticks. His bull was hot-breath-close, facing him with that “Who are you?” look. The bull dropped from the Lott, hindquarters down, front following like Boddington’s DVD. There were elephants 360, making unbelievable noise.
The second older bull objected and came right at Jamy and me. Ears flared, trumpeting, head up, then low. I was so focused on facing him that I shot just as he raised his head again, maybe 15 yards. The Hornaday solid penetrated that top fold of the trunk, passing millimetres above his brain. I held to shoot again, the Euro double failed. That was not in the DVD. I recocked. Nothing! Reloading, thinking at least I have a single shot, I pulled again as the huge elephant passed oh so closely by me, turning away from us, swinging his head. The second hit him behind his left ear, travelled across that massive skull and bedded above his right eye. The rifle clicked to the second barrel. Jamy shot simultaneously to the starboard of me. Now I am deaf. I thought Jamy was shooting at one of the other bulls near us. The perturbed bull went around the downed elephant, and paused. He looked down then at Rob and Byron, who were in motion with their rifles, and stared red-eyed at me. I shot as he stepped around the body, ears back, no trumpeting. The 500-grain bullet took him in the left side brain. He fell sideways on top of his companion, then rolled down next to him.
Reloading, I jumped on top of “my” elephant, jamming barrels into his ear. Jamy was yelling at me, “Don’t shoot, he’s dead.” We stopped everything, frozen. Me on top of #2, Rob and Byron guns pointed three yards towards the business end of either. Jamy had positioned us in the exit path of the herd. His shot was not at the others, but into the hip of my bull to change its thinking about retreat to the river. I had expected we would take two eventually, but not at once within seconds! This was a hunt like no other – double or nothing.
We took conservation bulls that had “escaped” Botswana national parks. Elephants have become a problem raiding local farmers and fishermen in Namibia. Food is limited in the parks, causing hundreds of animals to cross the croc-infested Chobe to avoid starvation. The Namibian CITES permit allowed us to take the ivory. Rob returned to the Caprivi last year for his second elephant on permit.
Me, I can still see those 12 seconds with my eyes open.
Jamy, Bill, Rob, Byron, and Kabousie – the picture about 10 minutes after we started breathing again. Note the weed on top of Rob’s elephant, left there by the falling companion.
BIO:
Rob and I have been hunting actively over 35 years, as committed conservationists, scientists, and rancher/farmers. I started as a teenager with a 22. and my second rifle was a .270. Years ago we decided to take the money spent on a deer lease in the Frio Canyon and tr
Nov 20, 2017 | Hunting News, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]True Inspiration
By Gary Underhill
“Excuse me, Madame” said Naftal quietly, as he took my wife, Glenda by both shoulders and pulled her backwards.
It was the spring of 2000, and we were on our first safari with Ken and Lynda Morris, owners of Byseewah Safaris. We were hunting with Willie and Naftal and had been pursuing a nice blesbok ram that kept disappearing into the bush. In an effort to relocate him, we had climbed an old, inactive termite mound. Glenda was looking through her binoculars and was unaware that she was straddling a Horned Adder. Irritated by her presence, the snake was coiled and ready for action! Thanks to Naftal’s interference, both went their separate ways unharmed. Later on, after considerable effort, Glenda made a great shot and took a beautiful blesbok.
In 2002, Naftal was involved in a car accident that resulted in the high amputation of his left arm. The amputation was such that wearing a prosthetic device is not possible. One can only imagine what the loss of his arm meant to a young man with a family, working in the hunting industry of Namibia.
In 2003, Glenda and I were back at Byseewah. As you might imagine, Naftal’s self-confidence was not in great shape at this point. I wanted to do a little hunting, and in discussing the days’ arrangements, Ken asked me to request Naftal to be our guide, and to do so in front of the rest of the staff. Since I was planning on that anyway, it was no problem. My request was to be made in front of the staff to show that, even with the loss of his arm, Naftal had value in the eyes of the client.
It was good to spend time in the bush with Naftal. We were away from the rest of the staff and light conversation was the order of the day. His sharp eyes spotted a gold-medal steenbok which now resides in our trophy room.
We have two boys who are avid archery hunters. In 2004 we took a family trip to South Africa and both boys and their wives had hunted plains game with a rifle. In 2007 we all headed to Byseewah for some archery hunting. Hunting gemsbok with rifle is difficult enough, but archery – you must be kidding me! Ken allows no shooting at waterholes, so if you hunt at Byseewah, it is all spot and stalk.
The only way to sneak up on a gemsbok at Byseewah is to wait until they go deep into the gabba-bush, Cataphractes alexandri. So each day Tom, Patrick, Naftal and Moses (another guide) went off into the bush. With the help of Naftal and Moses both boys each took two trophy gemsbok, as well as other plains game. And with that, Naftal guided the second generation of Underhills.
As part of their inheritance, our grandchildren get a month in Africa with Grama and Grampa when they turn twelve or thirteen. In 2009, our first grandchild, Katie, went on her trip. Since then, Abbie, JB, Jillian, Amanda and Patrick have all spent time in Africa. This last March, Bradley – our last grandchild – had his trip. And as usual, Naftal did a great job guiding us. I stayed back and watched as Naftal communicated with my grandson. Naftal has a gift in working with young hunters. His quiet, patient, deliberate manner of guiding them instills confidence and helps the shooter make a good shot.
Anyone who has spent time in Africa knows that there are people there who become like family to you. This has been the case with Naftal. Glenda and I feel that he has become part of our family.
Naftal has now guided three generations of Underhills and he has been an inspiration to all of us. He showed up at Byseewah 28 years ago when he was fourteen. He was hungry and looking for food. He spoke only his village language and had had only six months of formal education. When Ken asked if he could work for his food, he responded, “Yes”, and has been there ever since.
Naftal is now one of Byseewah’s top employees. He is a licensed professional guide in Namibia. Through his exposure to international clients, he speaks five different languages. He has his own computer and kindle and is comfortable with both. His reading and computer skills are largely self-taught.
Byseewah is an amazing place, located one hour south of Etosha National Park at an elevation of 4600 feet. It is sixty-two miles around the perimeter, so you can imagine the required maintenance to keep it tip-top shape. When Naftal is not hunting, he is involved in maintenance.
His wife took off after his accident, so he has raised his three children as a single parent. His oldest daughter, Evangelina, (19) is now enrolled at the University of Windhoek, and the two younger ones, Smedley, (14) and Herolina (12) are doing well in their studies.
As I reflect upon what Naftal has accomplished, in spite of the hurdles placed in his path, I must conclude that I have very little to complain about. The opportunities presented to us here in America are endless and I hope none of us are guilty of the sin of ingratitude.
Gary and Glenda Underhill retired from health care in 2014 and live in Enterprise Oregon. They continue to pursue their passion for Africa.
For more information about Byseewah, visit their website at Byseewah Safaris or contact Ken and Lynda Morris at byseewah@iway.na[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12722,12723,12724,12725″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Nov 17, 2017 | Hunting News, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Milking Xanda, the Cash Lion.
By Zig Mackintosh
An interesting article was recently posted on the Kenyan-based African Wildlife Foundation’s (AWF) website entitled: “Trophy hunting not an option to finance conservation in Africa.” The article makes reference to the recent, legal safari hunting of a male lion in Zimbabwe in the Ngamo-Sikumi State Forestry block. This hunting concession borders the Hwange National Park, is 420 000 acres in extent and gets one lion on quota a year. Briefly here’s what happened on the hunt, according to the Zimbabwean Professional Hunters Association’s press release:
- 14 kilometres outside of Hwange National Park, tracks of a big male lion were picked up and followed by the professional hunter and client.
- After tracking for seven kilometres the lion was spotted and the hunters were able to get a good look at it before it disappeared into the long grass. They noted that it had a GPS collar.
- The park researchers were contacted. They told the hunters that they knew of the lion and that its age was around 6½ years, well within the legal hunting age.
- The lion had been ousted from its pride by a coalition, and was now extensively traveling outside the park. It had no dependent cubs. The hunters were told that it was the correct lion to harvest. It is not illegal to shoot a collared lion in Zimbabwe as the collaring of a lion is for research alone and not protection, as is the case for elephant.
- After the lion had been shot the collar was returned to the researchers along with mane hair and blood and tissue samples.
So no news here, nothing controversial, except that the lion was “Xanda” who we all (now) know is “Cecil the Lion’s” son. The Cecil saga was a fantastic money-spinner for the animal rights groups, so never to let a crisis go to waste, time to cash in again.
In the AWF article, Kaddu Sebunya, AWF President trots out the usual anti’s drivel about banning sport-hunting and any trade in wildlife products and that other non-consumptive means be put in place to replace the revenue earned from hunting. He contends that Africa must not rely on the killing of “rare” species to finance conservation, and calls on the conservation community, institutions, and governments to increase investment in alternative financing to support programs such as relocation, eco-tourism development, and securing space for these species to thrive.
But then he contradicts himself in saying that the presence of lions signifies a healthy ecosystem with prey species and symbolizes conservation success. This is a pretty good description of Hwange National Park and surrounds where the lion population is just about at carrying capacity. In closing he goes on to say that as an Africa-based organization (whose headquarters are in Washington DC) they have a deep appreciation of the cultural and economic value that lions and other rare and iconic species play in a modern Africa. They expect that their interpretation of how to realize an economic value be taken as gospel, everyone else be damned.
The one thing that you can’t help but notice on the website is the donate button with a cute little heart sign. This is the only motive for the AWF’s concern for “Xanda”. Their Facebook following stands at around 1.2 million, a substantial pool in which to trawl for funding. In the comments section below the article’s posting there is the normal hate speech towards hunters, how trophy hunting is fueling poaching, how they would like to hunt down the hunters, etc. The name and address of the professional hunter is also publicized, resulting in his wife receiving death threats. Social media is notorious for its lack of decorum, it is easy to insult and threaten from behind a keyboard, but one would have thought that the AWF would insist on a level of decency on their Facebook page to maintain some level of professionalism. Could it be that it is much easier to raise money when your subjects are all frothing at the mouth?
Kaddu Sebunya’s call to ban safari hunting is reckless, and he probably knows it. He also knows that donations alone could never support the wilderness areas that are presently supported through safari hunting. This is irrelevant to him and the AWF. Raising money for the foundation is the goal. The real problem is that this no longer shocks us. We have become impervious; no-one is holding the anti-hunters accountable for their dangerous shenanigans.
It is perhaps ironic that the AWF, formally know as the African Wildlife Leadership Foundation, was founded by hunters. One wonders what Russell Train, Nick Arundel, Kermit Roosevelt, James Bugg and Maurice Stans, all members of the Washington Safari Club, would have made of the Cecil and Xanda debacle.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12735,12734,12733,12732,12730″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Nov 15, 2017 | Hunting News, News
Leica’s Flagship Magnus Riflescopes Now Available In Non-illuminated Verson
Leica has launched three non-illuminated versions of its highly successful range of Magnus riflescopes: Magnus 1.5–10×42, Magnus 1.8–12×50, and Magnus 2.4–16×56. This new line is priced at a lower entry point than the illuminated version, making it one of the best value European premium riflescopes on the market.
Magnus non-illuminated riflescopes boast proven optical and mechanical systems as well as innovative features, such as turret scale zeroing without tools. Excellent light transmission of approximately 92% and extraordinarily high contrast enables dependable sighting under even the most challenging light conditions. Magnus non-illuminated riflescopes are extremely reliable and versatile companions, and provide razor-sharp and crystal-clear resolution, thanks to their legendary Leica optical performance.
The Leica Magnus non-illuminated models join four illuminated models in the Magnus line, ranging from the safari-ready Magnus 1-6.3x24i to the powerful 2.4-16x56i.
For more information, visit www.leica-sportoptics.com
Nov 10, 2017 | News, WingShooting
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Taking Wing in Namibia
By Ken Bailey
They come out of the sun as though they’ve stolen the playbook of the Red Baron, so it’s not until the last moment that we see them.
By then it’s almost too late and, having obviously seen us, they’re already twisting skyward as I shoulder my gun. I manage to get off two shots, but it’s a desperation effort, and I don’t cut a single feather before the flight of a dozen sandgrouse disappears into the horizon. But they’ll be back, I know. They keep to their schedule with the precision of a Swiss watch, and I’ll be waiting for them, better concealed, when they return the next morning. In the meantime I’ll go chase guineafowl and francolin. Such is the bird hunting in Namibia – if you miss one bus, there’s always another only minutes away.
To many, the appeal of an African safari is the combination of abundance and diversity. Understandably many think only of big game, with literally dozens of antelope species to choose from, not to mention the Big Five and a wide assortment of other unique animals of all sizes and descriptions. And compared with most other parts of the world, the sheer numbers of most species is breathtaking. I, too, have been captivated by the intoxicating lure of Africa’s big-game hunting.
But along the way, safari by safari, I found my attention being increasingly distracted by game birds. Whether flushing a covey of francolin while mid-stalk on a fine kudu bull, watching with amazement at the endless flights of doves as I check out a waterhole for warthogs, or being sold out by squawking guineafowl when closing the distance on buffalo, I was discovering that the opportunities for bird hunting were every bit as numerous and notable as they were for four-legged critters. So when planning to hunt Namibia a couple years ago, I dedicated time to hunt birds as a “must-do” on the agenda.
I admit I’m an avid wingshooter by nature – if not by nurture. It wasn’t as though the numbers of game birds I was seeing in Africa awoke any feelings in my soul that weren’t already stirring. It’s simply that with each flush and flight and flurry of feathers, the idea of devoting time to birds grew from a germ to an all-out determination. Packing a favourite over/under smoothbore into the two-gun case before leaving for Namibia just cemented my commitment.
Rather than risk temptation and fall back into old habits, I took my shotgun for a walk the very afternoon I arrived at Danene van der Westhuzen’s Klawka camp, one of two hunting concessions she manages with her husband, Gysbert, under the Aru Game Lodges banner. Whenever you’re hunting new country it takes some time to get accustomed to your surroundings, so I wasn’t fully prepared when a couple of common buttonquail rocketed up from the tall grass at my feet just minutes into our walk. PH Stephan Joubert and I both emptied our doubles, and in quick succession the two quail tumbled to the earth. Despite a thorough search, unfortunately we weren’t able to recover them. Perhaps they were merely wing-tipped and ran off to distant cover, but I still got that queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach, known only to hunters who wound and lose an animal. It matters little that it’s “just” a bird and not something larger.
We hunted on, and over the next hour collected four red-billed francolin, or spurfowl as some refer to them, chunky common residents a little bigger than a Hungarian partridge. They tend to inhabit open, grassy wooded cover, especially near watercourses, and much like pheasants would rather run than fly. To get them up we’d first push them into dense thickets. Crash the thicket, and they’d flush, rather like hunting ruffed grouse in dense stands of young poplar. The francolin provided the perfect conclusion to a first day’s hunt.
They say everybody has a fight plan until they’re hit by that first punch. That’s guineafowl hunting in a nutshell. Pushing with beaters is one of the popular ways to hunt these strange birds, and invariably your strategy sounds pretty good – beaters here, moving in that direction, shooters there. Of course, that’s before the first guinea recognizes something’s afoot. Then the plan falls apart, as guineafowl have a nasty habit of not following the script you wrote. In part, it’s what makes them incredibly fun to hunt, but their ruthless unpredictability is also what makes them so frustrating.
We set up two drives for helmeted guineafowl, both thoroughly and precisely battle-planned. Total body count for the two drives? Two! I guess by some standards, that that could be recognized as a success, but on each occasion we reckoned that there were 20 or more guineas within our theater of operations. And our reckoning was right, based on the number of birds I counted flushing early, late, and in every direction but the one we wanted them to fly in.
But, my, they’re beautiful in the hand – hefty and colourful, if a bit odd-looking with a horny helmet and bald head of blue and red.
One morning we opted to walk-up hunt guineas, much as one might for sharp-tailed grouse or pheasants, the primary difference being that we were hunting without a dog. From several hundred yards away, however, we’d spotted a several guineas cavorting through a grassy flat area, pockmarked with the odd thorn bush. We circled to ensure the wind was in our faces, not to manage our scent but rather as a means to help reduce the noise we’d make, then walked slowly forward to where we’d seen them last. Guineafowl have incredible eyesight and hearing, so it was more than a little surprising when they held until we were well within range. Four shots between us and four birds down – it really couldn’t have unfolded more perfectly. I don’t want to spoil my story, so I’ll refrain from describing the majority of our other attempts at sneaking up on these crafty veld denizens!
Nobody goes to Africa for the doves. That’s what Argentina’s for, after all, or perhaps Mexico. But if you don’t take advantage of the dove hunting opportunities Africa offers, you’re missing out on some exceptional gunning. You won’t experience the powder-burning extravaganza common to the dedicated dove destinations – there will be no 500 and more bird days. What you can expect, however, is sustained shooting, morning and evening, for a wide array of species.
At Aru, we had three primary species to target. The largest is the Cape Turtle dove, with that distinctive early-morning call that I associate with southern Africa more than nearly any other sound. Only slightly smaller is the Laughing dove, with its distinctive black-mottled rusty-coloured breast. Finally, we enjoyed flights of Namaqua doves, pretty little birds sporting unusually long tails; the males have a characteristic black facemask and throat. Our standard tactic, simple as it may have been, was to hide beneath the shade of a large tree adjacent to a watering hole. Each morning and late afternoon, as if on cue, the flights would arrive. Generally it would be half a dozen birds or less, though on occasion as many as two dozen would fly in en masse. Seldom would we wait more than 10 minutes between volleys, though this would carry on for an hour in the morning, a couple hours during the late-day hunt.
On our best hunt I think we tumbled 70 or so doves between the two of us -impressive, though certainly not Argentinian numbers. The trade-off? In Argentina you don’t have the opportunity to watch giraffe, zebra, wildebeest, springbok and many more species go about their business while you’re reloading or awaiting the next flurry. Having experienced both, I much prefer the relaxed, yet steady pace and otherworldly backdrop of Africa’s dove hunts.
Before reluctantly packing for home, I insisted on one last Nambian sandgrouse hunt. As with the doves, three distinct species were available – Namaqua, Burchell’s and Double-Banded. Despite their names, they resemble doves or pigeons much more closely than they do grouse. More importantly, I can assure you their flight doesn’t resemble anything close to the predictable, even flight path of most grouse. Think of a pigeon on amphetamines trying to escape a peregrine falcon, and you’ll have some idea of how sandgrouse fly.
I was so keen to hunt them not just for their sporting qualities, but more because classic African literature is rife with references to clouds of sandgrouse arriving daily at hidden waterholes, and I wanted to better understand what the fuss was about. The truth is, the clouds are no longer there, much as they aren’t for many other species. At Aru we could expect flights of anywhere from four to a couple dozen birds. Unlike the low-flying doves that would arrive suddenly, invariably we’d see the sandgrouse coming from a long distance, winging high over the trees for their date at the local watering hole. I suppose that opportunity to prepare should have translated into better shooting percentages, but it never did for me. Not that I cared much – as I said, there’s always another bus just minutes away when bird hunting Namibia.
I’ll go back to Africa – I always go back. Now, whenever I do, hunting birds will be a regular part of the plan. In just a few short days in Namibia I discovered in a new way that, for hunters, Africa remains the land of opportunity.
Ken Bailey is an outdoors writer from Canada. When not hunting big game or birds, or fly-fishing, he’s writing about his experiences. And when the bills need to be paid, he is a consultant in the wildlife conservation industry.
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Nov 7, 2017 | Countries, Hunting, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]By PH Jofie Lamprecht
Everybody has a favorite place. Your favorite table at a restaurant. A special spot on the beach. A spectacular view. Your hideaway in your home.
Mine starts with a 300-foot ascent up to a plateau overlooking the surrounding countryside. Vast vistas of the African bush. So different on the top compared with the below. Trees, bushes and grass have been preserved on the top for 850 million years when two tectonic plates of soft, red sandstone clashed, eventually slipping, and one was forced on top of the other. Dinosaur tracks from 200 million years ago and more recent Bushmen etchings mark its history.
This unique plateau is my favorite place.
Patrick joined me – our second safari together, buffalo being the primary target animal. Sable and eland were also on the list, but our foot-dragging quarry was what this hunt was all about.
Ascending the plateau for the first time, Patrick was immediately captivated by the aura this place has on people.
“Welcome to Jurassic park,” is what I usually say as we grind up the steep incline. Day One had seen us skunked by several herds of buffalo bulls – they all ran away from us in our clumsiness. Hunters too noisy in the thick bush.
Day 3: It was a cold morning with the golden orb of the sun just breaking the horizon. The Cruiser ground to a halt in thick red Kalahari sand, and the dragging spoor of bulls was evident for all to see. Soup-bowl-size tracks connected with drag marks between each of the big, old, short-legged buffalo bulls’ steps. We disembarked from the vehicle for closer inspection. The dung cold, but very moist. The urine had not sunk too deep into the sand, and the night-mice had not scampered over the tracks. It would not take too much effort to catch up with these bulls – but would we get a look?
Our Heym double rifles unsheathed – one ‘older’ 88B in .500 NE – mine called, “the Hofman” after a late friend of mine, and the new – 89B in .470 NE. Both rifles true masterpieces of German engineering, the 89B with more classic English lines – more my cup of tea, I have to admit, to my chagrin. The double ‘thunks’ as the large cartridges are dropped into their barrels made for this special chosen war.
We load essential gear and start our trek on the spoor up the road, the tracks following the two-track for almost a mile. Barrels were cold in our hands, muscles just starting to loosen from the night’s slumber and the previous day’s exertion. The spoor swings off the two-track into the bush, into a wide-open field that had been burnt clear the previous year by a lighting strike. I grab Gideon by the shoulder. He’s a master tracker with vast experience who I have known for over 30 years.
“Buffel,” I say in my native Afrikaans.
At a distance of approximately 200 yards I see the black mass of at least three buffalo busy grazing on the grass of the recovering field. With the wind in our faces, but no cover to put the stalk on our quarry, I decide to loop around the outskirts of the field to make use of the available concealment, burning valuable time while these buffalo are moving in the open. This gives the hunter more opportunity to get a view of their horns from more than one angle, preventing them from disappearing into the thick bush, which makes judgment very difficult.
We get around the cover of bush and I glass around. My heart sinks a little. Only one buffalo left cropping peacefully undisturbed in the grassland. We put the stalk on him. Going through the checklist – big body and hard bosses seen from the side, but how wide? Plucking grass with his teeth and lips, he slowly turns to show his genetics. Horns are much narrower than his body from behind. A solid pass on this buffalo. We can do much better in this area.
Patrick taps me on the shoulder and points – two bulls passing in the dense bush to our left. I silently nod, and we soundlessly sneak out of the close proximity of the first bull. The other bulls are going to be tough to get up to in the thick stuff now – and with the added complication of this other bull at our backs. Once clear of our first bull we advance toward the tracks of the bulls Patrick had spotted. I turn over the lead to Gideon – his talent in the spoor – mine the stalk, trophy judgment and the minor issue of a .500-carrying bodyguard. Gideon finds the tracks and turns on them, walking easily, looking 10 feet ahead at the sign left by our quarry.
I often wonder about concentration levels. The average child today lacks concentration for more than a few minutes at a time. In Gideon’s master class caliber – a whole day of tracking is not a problem.
The breaking of bushes, and crushing and crunching of grass, clear my thoughts as we silently and carefully approach. I take the lead from Gideon, Patrick closely following behind me – a shadow of my steps – alert and ready. The morning cold being broken with the welcome sun now warming our backs, as the thick sand-slogging turning this into an early-morning workout. The noise gives way to the sight of moving black shadows feeding noisily through the African savannah.
Having hunted Cape buffalo in five African countries – these Waterberg buffalo certainly had to be the hardest to hunt. Aware and alert – any noise brings them to a standstill – noses and eyes seeking the disturbance. We had to be ‘very quiet and very sneaky’ to get close – just like Elmer Fudd.
On the left, a huge mass of black filled my Leica binoculars. I go through the checklist. A white scar on the rump of the buffalo is noted. He is another pass – old, but not what we are looking for. I turn my attention to the third one. He is facing away from us. His horns hang well past his body from the back. An average Cape buffalo’s body is 40 inches wide – the benchmark for most buffalo hunters. Big body. But what about his boss? He disappears into the thick bush!
We loop around. Each step is taken carefully in the ‘corn flake’-strewn bush. Our feet are clad in very quiet Russell Moccasin boots. Concentration is absolute on our mission. We advance – slow and steady. With each step the bush is getting thicker. “K-dup k-dup k-dub k-dub,” we hear the advance from behind. With the wind in our faces, the first companion already checked got our wind. I look behind us, and here the bull comes in slow motion in the thick red Kalahari sand to warn his mates. My heart sinks. “This stalk is over,” crosses my mind.
We are close, 25 yards from the two bulls we followed. The third bull runs up behind us and circles around. The two bulls ahead of us have their heads up – their full attention on any potential threat. The third bull has made a full circle and is now with his comrades.
In the thick bush, movement draws my attention to my left. The black mass moves branches and pushes trees out of his way. He turns, and the white scar gives him away. I turn my attention to the ‘wide’ bull I had seen just moments before. I can see he is hard-bossed – polished to a red-black patina. He lifts his head as the first buffalo gets to him, and they touch noses. My hand reaches back, and Gideon instinctively passes me the shooting sticks – not really necessary at this distance, but always better to use them if you can for a safe shot. Patrick slowly slides his Heym 89B .470 onto his rest – safety quietly clicked off.
“The one on the left. Wait for him to clear the bush,” my quiet instruction. The bull takes another step forward in apparent annoyance at the first bull’s disturbance and clears the bush. A long second passes, and then the blast from the 500-grain Hornady DGX soft-nosed bullet breaks the silence of the otherwise tranquil morning. The bush erupts with breaking branches and grunting.
Bomb-shock aftermath in the bush. We wait. A black mass stands to our left in the bush. Our bull?
Rifles at the ready, rifle slings and shooting sticks left behind, we advance. The buffalo to our left seems healthy and flees the scene. To our right I see a buffalo down – after quick inspection my finger indicates where the next shot needed to go. Patrick did not waste time to use his right and left barrels. With no reaction to the large pieces of copper-lead that were discharged, it was safe to move closer to ensure that this hunt had come to a successful conclusion. Insurance shots a must whenever buffalo hunting, in this case a waste of ammunition, the first bullet being perfectly placed through the heart and both lungs. Hugs and high-fives all round. An amazing morning just got better.
We admire the giant-bodied bull, with horns to match.
“When can we do this again?” Patrick’s only question.
Everyone has a favorite place. This one is mine.
Authors note: Patrick’s Cape buffalo made the NAPHA top 10 list, proudly being the NEW #9 Cape buffalo of all time from Namibia.
Husband. Father. Big Game Professional Hunter. Photographer. Writer. Jack Russell Lover, and a trained wine expert and a passionate “foodie” who adheres to blue-ribbon standards of food and service. Jofie’s specialty is dream safaris custom-tailored to each client. He is proud to uphold the traditions of ethical and fair-chase hunting, and works hard to get his hunters close to the game. He has a special place in his heart for the children who come on safari.
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Glassing buffalo among the elephants from behind the only tree for miles.
Rob’s view at the shots, a bit close.
Farm raider the day before. Note the red Coke can [filled with rocks] used to make noise and “scare” the elephant.
Jamy, Bill, Rob, Byron, and Kabousie – the picture about 10 minutes after we started breathing again. Note the weed on top of Rob’s elephant, left there by the falling companion.