A Grey Ghost in the Erongo Mountains

Nov 26, 2017 | Hunting News, News

A Grey Ghost in the Erongo Mountains
By Bruce Parker

You’ll see a far-off fire, a tiny flicker in the darkness, and, if your heart is right, you’ll know there are men sitting there, dressed against the cold, and planning tomorrow. They have come to find the legendary Grey Ghost of Africa, the antelope that consumes more fireside time and engages more hunters in wistful and proud discourse than any other in Southern Africa.

A farmer had once spoken of a special place far to the west, saying he’d never journeyed there himself, but years ago while still a youngster, a trader had passed by and left the horns. When pressed for details of their origin, he’d waved his arm towards the west and mumbled softly. For years the horns had been the sole reason, he said, that visitors called at his remote home, simply to see them, touch them and stare wistfully into the empty gravel plains that stretched further than even the horizon. The directions were never written, simply contained in a sentence that he’d learnt as a youngster, when all his waking time was devoted to how he would find the place where that kudu had once lived.

To find the mountains, he’d said, “You must walk the gravel plains to the west until the summer storms point you to the great mountains, and there you’ll find a land too beautiful to paint.” But from where do you start, he’d been asked, answering, “Well, my farm’s near Otjimbingwe, where the two rivers meet.”

Out on the plains, the night cold grew heavier and colder. In camp, under the yellow lights, the smell of the desert dust and coffee mixed with the shadows of men busy preparing for tomorrow. In a few hours, the gravel and pebbled surface would shimmer in the heat, and the dust devils would dance amongst the stunted acacia, and life would creep away and hide. And in camp, nothing would move as the land heated beyond use and began draining even the sky of colour.

The night before, the first of the summer’s storms had swept the peaks, flooding the valleys and ravines with a brown boiling turbulence that fuelled the dust-dry rivers. Amazingly, thirty-six hours later that wild water had already surrendered to the desert sand.

Arriving a day after the first heavy rains of the summer could be a disaster. Even Hendrik wore a worried look and had been seen having long animated discussions with our skinner Driet, but in the end we decided not to cancel.

In the early dawn and against the yellowing horizon, the sweeping and blackened arrowheads of rock seemed to fill the desert. Whatever the men were doing in the camp and whenever they walked from one spot to another, they kept glancing at the granite massif that seemed to glower at the world.

“It’s time,” said Chris. “We must leave now if we’re to be hard against the rock at first light and take the best track. The runoff from the storm should be past, so we’ll have the best chance at picking up the spoor we’re going for.”

Our pre-hunt chat in Windhoek had brought focus to the idea of going for the cisterns in the Erongo. Our strategy assumed that for aeons, rain water had tumbled, loaded with rock, carving and channelling the great granite domes, and in that rush of water, the secret cisterns were filled to overflowing. These reservoirs could not be far from the great run-off channels that burst from the mountains. The sand and rock-strewn washes had to be our way in, and the same applied to the wildlife. We reasoned we would go for height and watch the kudu arrive at the few springs that were still active.

“It’s easy,” Alan said, “We must just follow the insects, the bees or the butterflies, because they drink every day.”

“That’s right Alan,” said Chris, “and there’s a lot of rock there and not much topsoil to complicate the climb. Hendrik, my Herero tracker, is one of the few men who can follow over hard rock. And I must tell you guys, way to the south in the Khomas Hochland, Hendrik and I found kudu on steep bare rock, climbing like European sheep.”

“Tell us,” said Alan.

“We were following kudu tracks up a ravine, when the path was closed by a sloping rock. We could see scratch marks on the rock itself and followed. It was difficult, but after some five minutes we dropped down onto a small sand-filled cleft, blocked by yet another fall of rock. The tracks avoided the rockfall and went up the rock face again. In the next cleft standing on rock were eight kudu next to a spring filled with clear water, and doves were fluttering around trying to find a perch among a million butterflies. The amazing thing was that the kudu could not rush off, but stepped onto the rock and carefully climbed away and out of there.”

We left camp and drove towards the towering mountains, scattering a covey of Hartlaub’s francolin that ran, but did not take to the wing.

“Too cold to fly,” mumbled Alan, his face hidden by a balaclava.

On the top of the first embankment Chris engaged low range and the land cruiser went down at a steep angle, levelled off in what looked like deep mud, and crossed without a problem. In the riverbed itself the air was even colder than on the gravel plains above.

“Here’s good enough,” said Chris, bringing the cruiser to a stop near an overhang.

“It’s freezing,” said Alan, as we geared up, fingers clumsy and thickened by the cold. Around us, the grey tinted jungle of rock seemed more gloomy and indistinct in the slow drift of icy air from the heights above.

At a gesture from Chris, our half-frozen, zombie-like group shuffled after him and from the volume of fresh track, our theorising seemed to be paying off.

A half-mile further, we knew we had the way into the mountains. Crossing our path was a veritable kudu highway with the tracks of Africa’s most stately antelope everywhere. Some were deeply pressed and showing skid marks in the drying mud, while others were already losing their shape to the sun’s stealing warmth. This made for real focus, and checking the route they’d taken, it wasn’t long before we found the acacia thicket that hid their way into the mountains.

Ahead a huge rock fall and then the mountaineering part of our stalk began. As tricky as it now looked, this was what we’d talked about – surprising the kudu from high above. Along with height, came good glassing and shooting opportunities, providing we neither skylined ourselves nor rolled loose rock down the granite domes into the thickets and acacia below.

“The kudu will be standing, waiting for the sun’s warmth before they start feeding,” whispered Chris. “Keep low, or crawl, but don’t show yourself. If we skyline once, it’s all over.” Just then the distant bark of a chacma baboon echoed briefly, but was not repeated. Chris winced and shook his head, showing by crossing his throat that being seen by the troop would also kill the hunt.

We started at the foot of a jumble of balanced rock, against the dome flank and this gave us access to a rock-strewn ridge and up we went. Later, from a cave-like overhang, we had our first glimpse of the ravine floor below. Balancing rocks and a few rounded boulders ringed with acacia and thorn bush made the area appear impenetrable. Where was the open sand path with the game park view with kudu browsing everywhere? Alan looked concerned; it was after all his plan.

Protected by the deep shade, we started to glass, each trying a separate quadrant. Then, as if our eyes could suddenly see, kudu cows appeared scattered along the far wall of the ravine below us. Now, we peeled the thorn and spindly leaves from every acacia stand, searching for the bull, but, hard as we glassed, there wasn’t one.

Critically aware that a single loose stone could clatter hundreds of feet and bounce into the browse below and alert our quarry, we carefully resumed the stalk, feeling our way along the boulder-strewn path.

For another half hour, we continued our climb. At this height, we could see an infinity of boulders and ridges that began with a spiky hedge of green acacia and strange clusters of small boulder kopjes and loose round stones that lay scattered on sheets of flat reddish granite. Dead ahead was a drop-off, and then we began to catch glimpses of the ravine’s far side, a good quarter mile away. Taking off our packs and securing the rifles, we squirmed into position on our stomachs, elbows losing skin to the rough granite.

The view was breathtaking. Below was an oasis carpeted with yellow flowers and a mix of stunted euphorbia and acacia. Huge granite boulders lay scattered about, giving shade and form to this hidden paradise. As a busy group of rosy-faced lovebirds called, we spotted a pool at the base of the huge granite dome almost opposite us.

Suddenly there was a sharp intake of breath from Alan. “Man, I’ve got 59 maybe 60 inches, symmetrical with white tips and heavy bases. At 4 o’clock,” he whispered.
A kudu was behind a thicket of young acacia, his greyish-fawn coat blending with the branches so well that his horns were the only giveaway as they shook the branches above his head. Then he stepped back, holding his head low and took a few steps into the open, his tufted neck fringe almost on the ground. His rump twitched, sending a crowd of flies into the air, only to have them settle again in seconds. We lay transfixed, stretched out on the cool rock, wondering at his perfection. Not the biggest set of horns ever recorded, but a magnificent representation of what the greater kudu was all about. I knew we should savor this moment, for alive he was so much more than a horn measurement.

Then lifting his head suddenly, he stared hard down the ravine, his huge white-fringed ears flicking back and forth. Clearly, he sensed something. Not us surely, as we were at least 400 feet away and above him. Then I thought ‘acoustics’ – what if the distance wasn’t protection at all and the rocks were amplifying our whisperings?

I lowered my head and wriggled backwards, and found and unzipped my rifle bag, palming the zipper to silence it. Barely breathing, I pulled my .300 Win Mag half out the bag and slowly worked the bolt, loaded four 200gr rounds, and closed the action with a round in the breech, safety on. Taking a breath I looked up and saw Chris frowning and urging me to hurry.

Then the coarse, unmistakable bark – I knew I was going to lose him. I squirmed back and nervously exposed the barrel as Chris whispered in my ear.

“You may still have a chance. He thinks the problem is downhill and has moved into the brush where he was when we first saw him.” In seconds my scope was working back and forth probing the thicket. Nothing. Chris saw my nervousness.

“Slow down, you have kudu eyes now and we must just wait as he’s in a thicket island and must come out sometime.”

Then a touch on my arm: “I see him, he’s moved again, now half way back in the upper section, still looking down the ravine,” said Alan.

I kept the scope at 6x and started probing the area again. A white strip of something, then his rump twitched, and I had him. Moving the scope over his chest and neck, desperately looking for a clear shot, served only to raise the tension that gripped us all. Lowering the rifle, I looked at Chris and shook my head, whispering that the shot was a ‘no go’, as there were any number of small twigs and an inch thick-branch in the way.

“Chris, we must wait,” I said.

And wait we did. The minutes crawled by and then the first touch of the midday wind. A black eagle drifted over the jumble of rock below us. Alan and Chris glanced at me in turn, clearly urging the shot and wondering why I was holding off. I released the safety. The kudu was standing in much the same spot, but now I found some subtle shift in his position had opened a small window midway up his neck.

Steadying the cross hairs I took up first pressure and continued squeezing. The rifle jumped hard, but my eye stayed pretty much with the shot. Dust flew from his neck just as I lost the picture.

“He’s down! In his tracks,” said Chris with a shout. Our joy and excitement rang in those rocks, and everybody was talking at once. While we hurried to assemble the gear, Chris called Hendrik and gave him the good news, and then our long climb down to the gravel plains began.

Our greater kudu measured 62¾ and 62¼ inches.

Recovery took until early evening and left us standing at the truck, with aching backs and thighs, bloody, exhausted but proud, and with singing spirits.

None of us will ever forget that hunt, and one of the many memories that will remain with us was the ride back to camp. Leaning into the cooling desert air we rode that cruiser like warriors, arrow-straight across the vast gravel plain with the massif behind us, its peaks glowing gold. The great spiral horns rose high above the tailgate, perhaps his last salute to the home that had nurtured him for so long.

Our skinner Driet worked late into the night, with us constantly visiting to not only follow his progress, but to gaze again at the kudu. Hendrik joined most of our little expeditions, and he seemed as pleased as any man could be. We understood that he counted this magnificent kudu as his victory, too. And in the firelight we recognized in his work, a proud man in a very ancient Africa, practicing a very ancient craft.

Back at our fire we sat in silence and thought of what had been done and what had not been said, and while staring into the fire as all men do, we heard the strange call of a nightjar. It came closer and called again, its evocative notes finding no echo in the silence of the plains, but in our hearts it did, and in the silence that followed we wondered if it also spoke for the great mountain and what the message might be.

Bruce Parker has filmed for Craig Boddington and contributed to “Tracks Across Africa” in a life spanning the corporate world and the African bush. His hunting stories percolate through 40 years of hunting Africa.

Double or Nothing Elephant

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

True Inspiration

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]

Milking Xanda, the Cash Lion

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]

Leica’s Flagship Magnus Riflescopes Now Available In Non-illuminated Verson

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