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.
[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12497,12498,12499,12500″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Nov 5, 2017 | News, Uncategorized
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]
Why Hunters Miss
By Wayne van Zwoll
It likely isn’t the rifle, ammo or scope, the wind or the rotation of the earth. Guess who’s left?
Honesty and diplomacy both fail when your pal is already crestfallen. But, “You made a bad shot” is more helpful, in the long run, than the dodge, “Maybe something’s wrong with your rifle.”
Rarely, something is wrong with the hardware. But the rifleman still bears responsibility. On safari years ago, I called a good shot on an eland, but heard the “whump” of a paunch hit. We trailed the bull, and I killed it. Confidence restored, I kept hunting. But my next shot was again off the mark. Then I saw that a windage screw on my Redfield scope mount had backed off the ring. Recoil had bounced it from the opposite screw. The next shot had sent it back, and so on. I should have checked zero right away, with three shots.
A zero isn’t likely to shift, but each is precise for only one person, load and position! Recently, I hunted with a fellow who worked for the firm that had built his rifle. One morning a fine buck appeared 120 metres off, and stood. I waited for it to wilt. But a couple of shots later, the animal left. Thick silence ensued. When I asked if he’d checked his zero, the man barked, “Our staff zeroed this rifle!” He targeted the .30-06 later and found it shot 40 cm high at 100 metres! Using a rifle zeroed by someone else is an easy way to miss game. There are others.
I once watched a hunter shoot a brow tine off a bull elk at short range. Fully exposed, the animal was statue-still while my pal steadied his rifle on sticks. But this was his first elk, and he had his eye on the antlers. Game is often missed – or crippled – because hunters lose focus. The target is not the beast or what’s on its head. With few exceptions, the target is the sphere of life between its shoulders.
A rifle-scope can help you send a bullet through the vitals – or impede your view of the animal. Night was zipping up the sun one evening when a young woman and her PH came upon a fine kudu just 30 metres off. All actors froze, the PH like a bird-dog on point. The rifle danced about as his client tried to find the bull in her scope. Its ribs were shadowed but unobstructed.
“Everything’s a blur!” she hissed, desperate. The kudu sunfished to the blast of the .300, and galloped off. Skilled tracking by the PH brought a second, killing shot at last light. Equipped with a powerful variable scope, the woman had neither a sharply focused image nor an adequate field. A 2½x sight would have served her better, without sacrificing 250-metre precision.
Powerful glass can also delay a shot by magnifying wobble. The longer you aim trying to settle a reticle bouncing violently about the field, the more desperately you want to breathe. Pulse-bump becomes an earthquake as eye fatigue burns the target image into your brain. Muscles tire, wobbles become shakes. Aware the shot is unraveling, you yank the trigger and miss.
Long isn’t hard.
Shivering in the November dawn, the kid was also shaking from excitement. He couldn’t steady the crosswire, even when he leaned against the fence post. It would be a long shot – the deer looked small. He’d have to aim high. With the sight bobbing above the buck’s shoulder, the kid pressed the trigger. The buck kept eating. Two more shots brought no more reaction. The deer might as well have been cropping wheat on the moon.
Since that humiliation 50 years ago, I’ve avoided aiming high. Before every hunt I chant, under my breath: “Your barrel is already pointing up!” It is, relative to the sightline. It got that way when I zeroed!
When you zero a rifle, you’re adjusting the sightline to cross the bullet’s path at the distance of your choice. Because a bullet starts dropping as soon as it leaves the muzzle, the barrel must be elevated to hit a distant target. Your sight-line is a straight path at a downward angle to bore-line. The sight-line cuts through the bullet’s arc, meeting it twice. The second intersection defines the zero range.
Point-blank range is the distance at which a dead-on hold brings desired results. Most of my hunting rifles are zeroed at 200 metres. Given this zero, popular cartridges like the .30-06 keep bullets within 8 cm above or below center to 250 metres – a long effective point-blank range. A center hold to 250 will hit vitals on all but the smallest game. Bullets will strike highest just beyond mid-range (trajectory is parabolic).
Many hunters overshoot because game looks farther than it is. In broken country, your eye takes in lots of terrain. But bullets don’t follow ground contours. “Never hold off hair,” renowned hunter and outfitter Jack Atcheson told me. “If you think an animal’s so far that you must aim above it, you’re wrong or too far away for an accurate shot.”
A caveat: game on a flat pan or plain can seem closer than it is, because your eye snares so little earth. Your brain tells you: less terrain, shorter shot.
Distance is commonly assumed the biggest obstacle to accurate shooting. It does magnify errors in aim and shot execution, and the effects of wind and gravity. But other variables can also ruin your day. The longest poke I’ve taken at elk was twice the measure of the next-longest. Still, my bullet struck less than a minute of angle from point of aim. Perfect light, still air and a slinged-up prone position made this long shot an easy shot. Last month at this writing I missed – twice! – a gemsbok close enough for a chat. Clipped by another hunter, it was dashing through bush. My stance was poor, the iron sights hard to see.
Close shots don’t ensure kills. Neither do rifle-scopes with reticles born of calculus in tubes the size of irrigation pipes. Accomplished rifleman David Tubb has designed a scope reticle that compensates for spin drift – vertical displacement of bullets in wind. For right-twist rifling, a 3-o’clock breeze kicks a bullet not directly left, but to 10 o’clock. Left wind shoves bullets to 4 o’clock. Tubb’s horizontal wire is curved to track bullet paths down-range. Still, David insists hunters must master shooting fundamentals before sophisticated hardware is of any help.
To miss is human!
Marksmanship is an acquired skill. When you come to think yourself a “natural,” your targets are either too big or too close. Or you’ve bought into the myth that shooting prowess comes to every man as inexorably as facial hair. The pitiable souls who hang their egos with their targets are bound to be humbled.
Shooters who say they can’t practice because ammo costs too much or because they can’t access a range have little hope of shooting well. Many drills burn no powder. Practicing for small-bore matches, college team-mates and I donned shooting jackets and held rifles while we studied or watched television. We strengthened and stretched our muscles as they “memorized” bone-supported positions. We practiced deep breathing to bring oxygen to our eyes for sharper sight pictures. Empty hull in the chamber, we dry-fired to hone our trigger technique.
Once, closing the bolt of my Anschutz in a match, I brushed the trigger. The rifle fired. I’d barely sunk into position, had established no sight picture. The best I could hope was that the bullet had missed the paper entirely, as any hole would be scored. To my surprise, the bullet had centered the correct target on a sheet of 11 small black bull’s eyes!
Any shot to the middle without aim is great good fortune. But verily, this bullet went where the rifle had directed it. My position had allowed the rifle to point naturally at the target.
Many hunters miss game because during the off-season they fire only from a bench. Deprived of a rest in the bush, they don’t know how to align their bodies quickly with the target, so the rifle is supported by a platform of bone and relaxed muscle. Muscles under load tire and twitch; the rifle bobs and quivers. When you trigger a shot, tensed muscles involuntarily relax, shifting the rifle before the bullet leaves. A rifle relaxing onto the target will spend more time there during the firing sequence.
You’ll do well to keep both eyes open. A squint against bright sun, pelting sleet or swirling dust makes sense. But depth perception requires both eyes working in tandem. Using two eyes also gives you a wider field, so you see more details that might affect your shot. Each pupil has evolved to control the light reaching the retina, dilating in dim light, constricting in bright sun. Darkness imposed by closing an eye encourages that pupil to dilate, as the other wants to throttle light. Closing one eye strains both. Animals you seek use both eyes to stay alive or launch an attack; why close one of yours at the moment of truth?
You see best when looking straight ahead. Aiming, your face is best kept upright on the stock. Prone and sitting positions tilt your brow; but the less tilt the better! Kneeling and offhand, your head should be erect, even if only the stock’s toe meets your clavicle.
While aiming and firing a rifle is a physical process, “Marksmanship is as much mental,” said my first coach, Earl. He tapped ashes from a cigar long enough to holster. “But don’t over-think. When you feel a good shot, let it go. Don’t analyze it. Don’t tell yourself it’s too good to be true. Just turn it loose.”
Late shots don’t count.
“I should have fired sooner,” Don told me. “At six metres, he lowered his head. I didn’t want to kill that bull.” The Norma solid connected at just two steps. Momentum carried the elephant forward. As Don leaped aside, the falling beast’s trunk broke his arm.
Even if your life never hinges on a quick shot, precision has a price. Opportunity may be fleeting as an animal pauses at cover’s edge. For close encounters, fast shooting can trump gnat’s-lash accuracy.
The era of exhibition shooting stateside passed during my youth, as Herb Parsons gave his final demonstrations to pie-eyed audiences. He’d milk a Model 12 in volleys that rolled like thunder, leaving smoke floating where seven clay birds had hung briefly. Herb would toss oranges and pulp them with .30-30 bullets. Emptying a 10-shot .351 self-loader from the hip, he’d dust 10 clay targets standing on edge. “They’re not hard to hit, folks,” he’d laugh, “just easy to miss!”
Arguably, smooth, fast, instinctive shooting is disappearing, as shooters (and now, hunters) focus on ever-more-sophisticated rifles, optics and loads to hit targets far away. But some long-range marksmen have missed spectacularly up close. The equipment that helps them at distance can impede them in cover.
Better prepared for catch-as-catch-can hunting were shooters whose exploits date back a century or more. Early among them: Phoebe Ann Moses, born in a cabin in rural Ohio in 1860. Hunting to feed her family, then for market, she came to hit quail on the wing with a .22. At age 16, after thrashing him at a local match, she married visiting sharpshooter Frank Butler. They later joined Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show, she under the name Annie Oakley.
Petite and sweet-tempered, Annie became an audience favorite. Aiming in a mirror, she fired over her shoulder to burst glass balls Frank tossed. Germany’s Crown Prince, later to become Kaiser Wilhelm II, asked her to shoot a cigarette from his lips. She did, allowing after World War I that a miss might have changed history! Annie shot coins from Frank’s fingers. Firing 25 shots in 25 seconds with a .22 repeater, she could make one ragged hole in the middle of a playing card, or split that card edgewise with a bullet. Johnny Baker, another Wild West Show marksman, tried for 17 years to outshoot Annie. “She wouldn’t throw a match,” he said. “You had to beat her, and she wasn’t beatable.”
But nowhere do fast hits matter more than in Africa, when surly animals come for you. His brush with the elephant fresh in memory, Don took a client out for a lion. Big pug marks led the hunters to a fine male. At close range the client fired a black-powder load from his Holland 10-bore. The lion ran off, but the cloud of white smoke hung tight, obscuring three lionesses nearby. They charged. Two broke off, but one pressed on, low and lightning-fast. Don fired instantly. His 9.3 bullet smashed the spine between the shoulders. Dead in mid-air, the lioness cart-wheeled past the hunters.
Mused my friend: “Accurate may not be enough if you’re slow. But a miss is always worse!”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12540,12541,12542,12543,12544,12545,12546,12547,12548,12549,12550,12551,12552,12553,12554,12555,12556,12557,12558,12559,12560,12561,12562″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Nov 2, 2017 | News
Hi Richard,
I found the African Hunting Gazette website while browsing through some Outdoor themed sites and have to say I was extremely impressed with the many great resources your site displays!.
I am Will Tottle, founder of WonderfulWellies.co.uk ( http://www.wonderfulwellies.co.uk/ ) . We expertly curate content that helps people find the best information on camping, hiking, footwear and other outdoor activities. From gear buyers guides and reviews, to how to’s and Q&A’s.
Will you please take a moment to review my website and consider mentioning it on your resources page found at https://africanhuntinggazette.com/useful-links/? I look forward to hearing your thoughts.
Thanks for your time.
Kind Regards
Will Tottle
Nov 2, 2017 | News, Wildlife Game
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Namibia – Leading Africa in Community Wildlife Conservation
By John Ledger
In 1967 a young man of 23 took a vacation from his job on a mine, working underground deep below the dry surface of South West Africa. Through the good offices of a friend who worked in government, he was allowed to visit the Kaokoveld, a restricted ‘native reserve’ the size of Belgium, in the north west of the country, bounded by the Atlantic Ocean on the west, and on the north by the Cunene River, the border with Angola. It was an experience that changed his life, and also the destiny of wildlife conservation in this vast southern African country.
Garth Owen-Smith was astonished to find the local people and their livestock living alongside wild animals of every description, from elephants and rhinos to springbok, gemsbok and kudu. He resigned from his mining job, and set off on a bicycle to Botswana and Rhodesia, desperately looking for employment that would enable him to fulfil his dream of working with wildlife in wild places. He found none, and returned to Durban in Natal, the province of his birth. He applied to the Department of Bantu Administration and Development (BAD) and in August 1968 he reported for duty as an agricultural supervisor based in Opuwo, the dusty little administrative centre of the Kaokoveld.
He explored the vast region and learned much about the local people, the wildlife and the arrogance of the South Africans who were in charge of governing South West Africa. Originally annexed by Germany in 1882 during Europe’s ‘scramble for Africa’, South Africa was asked to invade the territory by the Supreme Allied Command at the start of World War I. In July 1915 the outnumbered German colonial forces surrendered, and a military government maintained law and order until June 1919, when Pretoria was given control through the Treaty of Versailles, consolidated in 1921 as a ‘C Mandate’ by the recently formed League of Nations. South Africa implemented its particular brand of racial segregation in the territory under its mandate, seeking to create separate areas for the different tribes of native people living in the country.
Garth clashed with his superiors over the illegal hunting of game in the Kaokoveld, and after two and a half years was transferred, without explanation, to a post with BAD in Natal (he discovered later that the real reason was that he was regarded as a ‘security risk’). He resigned from that job, went to university and did various and diverse other things, all the while dreaming of returning to the vast open spaces of the Kaokoveld.
After visiting Australia, and finding it rather boring in comparison to wild Africa, Garth managed to return to the Kaokoveld for a brief sojourn in 1973, working on an ethnobotany project for the Windhoek Museum. Then a stint in Rhodesia saw Garth managing one the Liebig’s cattle ranches, while also becoming involved in Allan Savory’s pioneering experiments on intensive grazing systems. As the war escalated in that country, and friends and colleague started to pay the supreme price, Garth was given an opportunity to return to South West Africa as an employee of the Department of Nature Conservation, initially stationed in the south of the country, before being transferred to Etosha National Park in 1980. In 1982 he resigned to join the newly-formed Namibia Wildlife Trust, with his salary guaranteed by the South African NGO, the Endangered Wildlife Trust (EWT) for at least two years. At last he had returned to his beloved Kaokoveld!
But it was depleted of its wildlife wealth by years of drought and poaching. Everyone had participated in the slaughter, including the South African military, civil servants, opportunistic hunters as well as the local people, who had been given .303 rifles and ammunition to defend themselves against the ‘freedom fighters’ of SWAPO (South West African People’s Organisation). Having lost their livestock in the drought, they killed wild animals for food. But the elephants and rhinos were often killed by the more sophisticated hunters, including military men in helicopters.
Garth was faced with turning around this dire situation, in an area of nine million hectares, with very few resources indeed. His previous contact with the local people of the Kaokoveld convinced him that their support and co-operation would be the key to conserving wildlife and restoring its numbers to their former abundance. Together with a local headman he had befriended, Joshua Kangombe, Garth came up with the idea of hiring ‘community game guards’, appointed by their own headman, to look after wildlife in their designated areas. They would get a small cash allowance and also rations sufficient for their families. Several former poachers changed their ways in return for a less risky life, with the assurance of daily meals besides! This was the start of one of the world’s most remarkable nature conservation successes.
Owen-Smith, Garth (2010). An Arid Eden. A Personal Account of Conservation in the Kaokoveld. Jonathan Ball Publishers, Jeppestown, South Africa. Soft cover, 15 x 23 cm, Colour and monochrome photographs, 610 pages.
This is Garth’s story, an excellent book that should be read by anyone interested in Africa and wild places. Today Namibia has become a top destination for hunters, who play a critical role in ensuring the success of this remarkable effort to build a rural economy on the value of wildlife. The important ingredients are all in place: the proprietorship of the animals lies with the landowners, whether private or communal. These landowners are allowed by government to use their wildlife to create wealth and improve their lives, and government also protects these landowners from those who would illegally hunt their animals.
Initially equipped with a single Land Rover, two assistants and six community game guards, the challenges that Garth faced were indeed daunting. Nonetheless, with the support of the community leaders, and a number of successful prosecutions and convictions for illegal hunting, the situation slowly turned around. However, politics again reared its ugly head, as South West Africa was still under the control of Pretoria, although nature conservation issues were handled by the Department of Nature Conservation (DNC) in Windhoek, staffed largely by South Africans. There was a conflict between the DNC and the Damara Council about the land-use of a large section of the Kaokoveld, and Garth was seen to be on the side of the local people.
The Namibia Wildlife Trust informed him that they were closing down the Community Game Guard project. The EWT agreed to fund the project until he end of 1984; but in the middle of that year, an EWT delegation was told by the DNC officials in Windhoek that they were to stop funding Garth’s salary and that of his two assistants, and that in future the rations for the game guards (paid for the EWT!) would be controlled and delivered by DNC staff. The old epithet of ‘security risk’ was implicit in the actions of those DNC officials, and they clearly saw him as a ‘trouble-maker’. The EWT Board of Management was reluctant to clash heads with government, and equally reluctantly cut off Garth’s livelihood.
After surviving for two years without a salary, a change of guard at the EWT saw the DNC challenged and Garth was once again financially supported by the EWT from April 1987. He wrote a ground-breaking article for the Trust’s magazine entitled ‘Wildlife conservation in Africa: there is another way’, which laid out his philosophy of working with local communities, not against them. With wildlife populations steadily increasing, Garth persuaded the DNC to allow some meat hunting for the local communities who had supported the conservation initiatives, and this helped to create goodwill and bolster the authority of the traditional leaders.
Another initiative of the EWT was to organize fly-in safaris to Palmwag Lodge, which Garth led, and 30 such tours resulted in around 300 people from all over the world experiencing the superb scenery and wildlife of this little-explored land. This pioneering tourism income helped to pay Garth’s salary. A number of these tourists would later become important financial supporters of the project, as well as spread the word back home, and the innovative programme of community nature conservation was beginning to gain momentum. All of this was happening against the background of a fierce military conflict in the northern part of the country and Angola, with the looming independence of South West Africa the subject of intense debate and negotiation at local and international level. On 21 March 1990, Sam Nujoma became the first president of the Republic of Namibia after SWAPO won the democratic election.
The new Minster of Wildlife Conservation and Tourism, Nico Bessinger, was a leading member of SWAPO and had been very aware of the pivotal role that Garth and his partner, Margie Jacobsohn, had played in community conservation in the Kaokoveld. He asked for their help to implement his plans to make nature conservation relevant to all Namibians. So Garth was promoted from a ‘security risk’ to ’government advisor’!
The project morphed into the a non-government organisation called Integrated Rural Development and Nature Conservation (IRDNC), which spread its wings further afield into East and West Caprivi. Major international donors now moved in after independence with significant funding, including WWF, USAID and LIFE (Living in a Finite Environment), a contract between the governments of the USA and Namibia. The EWT did not have the financial muscle of these global big-hitters to play a further role, and moved on to support some community conservation initiatives in war-torn Mozambique.
The final step in this historical process was the creation of ‘communal conservancies’. Under the old South African regime, trophy hunting and game farming on freehold land was already established as a viable economic land-use option based on wildlife. The challenge was how to extend this to communally-owned land? In 1996 the Nature Conservation Amendment Act was passed into law. It made provision for rural communities to register ‘conservancies’ and have ownership as well as management and use rights of the wildlife on their land.
There were many difficulties and obstructions to overcome, but in June 1998, the first four conservancies were legally gazetted and registered. President Sam Nujoma received the WWF-US’s prestigious ‘Gift to the Earth’ Award on behalf of Namibia – but there were certainly many other unsung heroes responsible for this remarkable achievement!
In the nearly twenty years since then, the progress has been astonishing. Interested readers should go straight to www.nacso.org.na for further interesting details. NACSO is the acronym for the Namibian Association of CBNRM Support Organisations. There are now 83 registered conservancies, covering 163, 017 square kilometers of land, and benefiting some 190,000 people. NACSO comprises funding partners, hunting partners and tourism partners. The Namibian government firmly supports sustainable wildlife utilisation and trophy hunting. Namibia’s wildlife is flourishing, while that of many African countries is in decline (as is the case in Angola, Namibia’s northern neighbour).
While many individuals and organisations have helped to fashion this exemplary state of affairs, the role played by the young man who fell in love with the people and wildlife of Namibia fifty years ago deserves much more than a special mention. Thank you, Garth Owen-Smith!
North of the Cunene, wildlife is under siege
Huntley, Brian J. (2017). Wildlife at War in Angola. The Rise and Fall of an African Eden. Protea Book House, Pretoria (www.proteaboekhuis.com). Soft cover, 17 x 21 cm, colour and monochrome photos, 432 pp.
Angola was one of Africa’s last great wildernesses. Gorillas and chimpanzees shared the pristine rainforests of Cabinda, giant sable antelope roamed the miombo woodlands of Luando, and the enigmatic Welwitschia mirabilis crowded the plains of the Namib. But war, intrigues, and arrogance have resulted in the loss and near extinction of most of Angola’s formerly abundant wildlife and the decay and erosion of a once endless Eden.
In this brand-new book, Brian Huntley lifts the lid on Angola’s tragic destruction of its wildlife and protected areas, writing that “The national parks in Angola are in a chaotic and critical state – a situation that must be recognised for what it is, and widely publicised both within the country and globally”.
While Huntley is optimistic that the situation can be turned around, and he gives a number of recommendations as to what should be done, he also comments: “But evidence-based criticism is not popular in Angola. I have been warned not to return to Angola in the wake of this book’s publication.”
Dr John Ledger is an independent consultant and writer on energy and environmental issues, based in Johannesburg, South Africa.
John.Ledger@wol.co.za
[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12535,12537,12536″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 31, 2017 | Hunting News, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]In the Eye of the Beholder
By Ken Bailey
Kudu were not on my “want” list. But they invariably become part of conversation whenever you’re in kudu country, for these regal spiral-horned antelope have a way of capturing the imagination like few others. And so it was, that Aru Game Lodge’s PH Stephan Joubert and I talked kudu as we sat high on a hill glassing the vast bushveld below, while searching the thorn bush for eland!
The truth is that I had no intention of shooting a kudu. Having taken a respectable bull on a hunt years earlier in South Africa, on this Namibian hunt I was focused on the kudu’s big brother, the eland. (Also high on my list were springbok, steenbok and caracal – the ubiquitous lynx-like cat found across much of Africa, although given how few caracals I’ve seen over several safaris, I am not convinced that they’re as widely distributed as the range maps suggest.)
The icons of hunting writing that popularized kudu wrote about their experiences in East Africa, largely in what is now Tanzania. Perhaps it was Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa that jump-started the kudu mystique, or maybe it was Jack O’Connor’s assertion that the kudu was the Dark Continent’s top trophy, and his coining of the term “the grey ghost” that inspired all those who followed in his footsteps. At that time, kudu were decidedly uncommon, undoubtedly contributing to their reputation as a trophy in high demand. Today, however, kudu are thriving, particularly in South Africa, Namibia and Zimbabwe.
From our hilltop vista, Stephan and I carefully and methodically identified a great diversity and abundance of game. A mixed herd of zebra and blue wildebeest, two separate groups of gemsbok, clusters of red hartebeest, numerous springbok and a sprinkling of warthogs, ostriches, waterbuck and steenbok. But – no eland. So, we settled back more firmly against the rocks and began to sweep the landscape all over again.
Ten minutes later, in the typically understated manner of all African PHs, Stephan leaned over and said, casually, “There’s a pretty decent kudu bull down there. He only has a horn and a half, but the intact side looks pretty good. Maybe 55 inches. Are you interested?”
Decision time. I’d arrived with little interest in taking a kudu, but 55-inch bulls don’t grow on trees, especially in this part of Namibia where kudu, especially the bulls, had been hit hard by an epizootic outbreak of rabies, and the population was only then beginning to rebound. However, this was a one-horned kudu, irrespective of the length. Not generally a trophy animal.
“Let me give it some thought,” and we both settled back to continue glassing.
The whole notion of what constitutes a trophy has been undergoing a metamorphosis in recent years. In an effort to ensure that hunters are targeting only the oldest animals as a means to help ensure the health and sustainability of populations, there have been numerous biological and social initiatives aimed at educating hunters and the professional hunting community alike. In 2006, sponsored in part by Conservation Force and the Dallas Safari Club, a paper on ageing lions was released describing how various traits, including facial pigmentation, could be used to select older, post-breeding animals. A few years ago, and championed by noted veterinarian, author and PH Kevin Robertson, the importance of selecting past-their-prime Cape buffalo bulls was reinforced. Hunters were encouraged to choose the oldest and ugliest bulls. Today, what should count is age, not size.
I considered this as I continued to scan the Namibian veld, returning repeatedly to scrutinize the lone kudu bull browsing in the camel thorn. He was alone, not a herd bull, as one might expect of a breeding-aged animal. Given the length of his one intact horn, he had some years on his hooves. He definitely appeared old.
I pondered my own hunting ethics together with where the hunting community is headed in defining trophy quality.
“Let’s do it.” Without another word the two of us, along with our two trackers and Stephan’s constant companion, a friendly Rhodesian Ridgeback, made our way down the little mountain.
Height is a strategic advantage in pinpointing game. By the time we’d made it down and onto the flat veld, we found our perspective had disappeared with the altitude. We were now staring at a sea of thorn bush and although we’d identified a landmark or two, it was difficult to know exactly where the bull had wandered out of our sight.
Stephan sent one of the trackers up a fortuitously positioned windmill to see if he could spot the bull. Five minutes after scaling the rickety structure the tracker signaled that he’d spied our kudu. After scrambling down he excitedly relayed its location – only a few hundred yards distant among the scrub. A quick confab between the three of us to discuss tactics, and we were on the hunt.
From the direction we knew the bull to be heading, Stephan guessed that it was feeding towards a watering hole, so we set out on a trajectory that would intercept the bull along his path. Keeping the wind in our faces, we hunched over and began quickly duck-walking, always wary of the needle-sharp spines of the camel thorn and black thorn trees along the path. Eventually Stephan and the trackers got right down into a catcher’s-stance waddle. Too many years of basketball has left me with knees that have all the flexibility of rebar, so I was on my hands and knees, scurrying along behind as best as I could.
A hand raised is the universal sign that game has been spotted – at Stephan’s signal we all froze. Staring intently to where he pointed, I eventually made out the bull moving slowly through the dense cover, feeding as he went. He was headed toward a clearing, and I got into position to be ready for when he stepped out.
Breaking into the open, the bull did as he was hard-wired to do – stopping to check that the coast was clear. That hesitation was all I needed, and at the shot he was down in his tracks.
It’s always a bittersweet moment when you first approach a downed animal, and that feeling was only amplified when we realized what an ancient warrior this kudu truly was. In many places his hair was abnormally thin or worn away, and he had obvious cataracts in both eyes. His “good” horn was broken, battered and splintered, and stretched the tape to just shy of 54 inches. The wear on the stub side made it obvious he’d been handicapped for quite some time, likely from having performed double duty, given that the other horn was little more than an 18-inch remnant.
Stephan estimated the bull to be 13 years old, well past his prime and considerably older than the eight- and nine-year-old bulls that are typically taken. With his poor overall health and impairments, it was unlikely he’d have lived another season – more probably destined to become dinner for one of the local leopards.
Despite folks having asked several times why I’d willingly shoot a kudu with only one horn, when I look back on this hunt, it’s without a smidgen of hunter’s remorse. In fact, it is just the opposite. Among the many animals I’ve been fortunate to take over the years, this bull is among those I’m most proud of.
Rather than only evaluating physical attributes, age should be an important consideration when defining what constitutes a trophy. My one-horned kudu more than meets trophy standards by any measurement.
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.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12671,12672,12673,12674,12675″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 30, 2017 | Hunting Stories Online, News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Horns and All
By Ray Cox
To leave footprints in the ancient homeland is a privilege, and earning its bounty comes with three possibilities: a great deal of gratitude, being humbled, or both.
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed my son, Sean, from across the pitch-black chalet. “Yeah,” I said, speculating wishfully. “Sounds like it’s a couple of miles away.” It was 2.30 a.m., our first night in the Zambezi Region (the Caprivi Strip) camp. After a few minutes the lions roared again. Our senses now quite alert, we lay quietly, eventually drifting off to sleep until the generator rallied us around 5 a.m. For much of my 60 years, Africa had resonated within me. Deeply embedded instincts drove a desire to return to the ancestral common ground. That night, we were welcomed home.
We were on a 15-day dangerous- and plains-game safari with Omujeve Hunting Safaris. Eighteen months earlier, I had found Omujeve in AHG’s “Visited and Verified”, the African Visited Outfitter verification program.
“What are your priorities?” PH Steyn asked, while loading the bakkie that first morning. “Cape buffalo with distinctive bosses is more important than spread,” I replied, and added, “Kudu over 50 inches, eland, gemsbok, and other plains game – let’s hope for good specimens.” Smiling broadly Phillip said, “Let’s get on with it.” We climbed into the cab. The others rode in the open back of the bakkie – Sean, who was handling game-spotter/photographer/videographer duties, Foster the Mashi Conservancy Game Ranger, and Tracker Chris. Thirty minutes later at Bwabwata National Park along the Angola border, Park Ranger Carl joined the group, and the hunt was underway.
Within four hours, we saw several buffalo, had an unsuccessful stalk, and encountered tsessebe, lechwe, impala, sable, and roan, none of which were on license. That afternoon, Phillip was reassigned to another party that arrived earlier than planned, and Jacobus Wasserfall was now my PH. Over the next few days buffalo were scarce, but we had quite a few stalks for kudu, usually groups of two to five. There were no shot opportunities, just brief glimpses of bodies and heads before they vanished. We were thrilled nonetheless as several stalks involved kudu in the 52-55″ neighborhood, and one upwards to 60″. The biggest of the “Grey Ghosts” are equally as smart as they are endowed.
We searched the park and the neighboring conservancy for buffalo, and stalked the elusive kudu, but saw no eland, gemsbok, or other animals on quota.
We relocated to nearby Nkasa Rupara National Park, bordering Botswana. A brilliant sunrise cast long shadows on the misted landscape. Lagoons surrounded by expansive islands of grasses and woody vegetation considerably improved visibility, compared with the dense tree and shrub savanna of Bwabwata and Mashi, and increased game sightings.
A Park Ranger navigated our vehicle through the savannah, and within an hour, a mile distant, we spotted a herd of more than 100 buffalo. Abandoning the bakkie, we used the many islands of vegetation to close the range. Jacobus diligently studied the herd, found a mature bull, and plotted our approach relative to the wind. Despite having ample firepower, a Winchester Model 70 Safari Express in .416 Rem. Mag., I wanted to stalk in close. Jacobus selected a buff. It was between 65-70 yards from where I shot. The buffalo ran, and a second Hornady 400-grain bullet stopped him near a thicket. Three more shots up close produced a death bellow. Its very large bosses, with horns spread 43″ in near-perfect curls, made for a very happy hunting party. To touch those horns realised the fulfilment of a Cape buffalo dream.
We traveled to Omujeve’s main camp in central Namibia, entirely different from the Zambezi Region. Vistas were extraordinary, with unobstructed views toward the horizon in every direction. The veld, stark yet beautiful, was mostly plains and undulating hills punctuated by occasional kopjes. Shots could be 300 yards or more, yet despite the extraordinary visibility, finding game was suitably challenging.
Though kudu remained a primary objective, plains-game PH Jean Cilliers seized opportunities to take the other game on my list. Near dusk on the first afternoon, a blue wildebeest presented broadside at 240 yards. Shooting off sticks from a sitting position, my Sako Hunter V in .338 Win Mag using Federal 250-grain Nosler Partition bullets put him down within yards of where he stood.
Meanwhile, my wife Denise had arrived in camp that afternoon after multi-day tours in South Africa and Namibia, just in time to keep me company as the next day Sean was heading home. Over sundowners, we shared safari and tour stories.
The following morning as we returned to camp for lunch, a warthog darted up a fairly open hillside at 100 yards. I quickly uncased the stowed Sako, and a single shot turned him into leopard bait.
During numerous stalks on gemsbok we would come across zebra or waterbuck, but Jean would say, “We can always circle back for them.” Thus it was that we took a 28″ waterbuck. We had spotted him standing, elegant and stately, under shade on the edge of a dry riverbed about 600 yards away. The gemsbok had eluded us, so we made our way back toward the waterbuck. Our approach was cautious for a typically wary quarry, as we weaved undetected through the thorn bush. At 166 yards, the shoulder shot sent him stumbling in our direction. He stopped, facing us at 50 yards where another shot dispatched him.
The following morning, we headed out for eland. After working three sides of a broad hilltop, we sat quietly. The wait was brief. We heard the telltale clicking of eland hooves, followed by movement in the bush. As silently as possible, Jean and I tried intercepting them, but we soon realized that they were gaining distance on us. We went back to the bakkie, headed down the two-track about a mile, stopping just below a ridge that offered an advantage in spotting the eland.
As we reached the hilltop, instead of an eland, a gemsbok appeared on the opposite hillside. Jean had me on the sticks, when suddenly in the valley below us a group of gemsbok ran through, spooking the subject in the crosshairs. The herd moved off and there in the exact spot where the spooked gemsbok had stood on the opposite hillside was another, even more impressive specimen. At 288 yards, the gemsbok bull folded at the shot. His beautiful, prime-condition horns measured 37.5 inches.
Still eager to intercept the eland, we drove a few miles, Jean saying that they cover ground quickly. Leaving the bakkie and our new tracker, Hafani, behind, we double-timed it to a broad, flat depression completely surrounded by hills. Jean said that he was familiar with this area, suspecting that here the eland would take a mid-day rest. Dense ground cover provided concealment as we entered and slowly made our way through the depression. Suddenly, a group of eland appeared and a large male stopped broadside 160 yards away, but a dense thorn thicket blocked any clear path for a shot. Jean waved me into the thicket. I balked at first, thinking he was crazy, but he insisted, indicating that we had precious little time to get set and shoot. From a low sitting position on sticks, I found space through the thorns, and put a .338 round through the shoulder. The eland staggered forward and piled up on the edge of another thorn thicket. The bull had a thick tuft of tawny blond hair in front of his 36.5” horns.
Over lunch at camp, Denise suddenly announced that she would join me that afternoon. Not only was this her first safari, it was the first time she had accompanied me hunting. I was thrilled!
Common springbok, on license, were hard to find, and we were fortunate to spot a herd bedded about 500 yards away. Jean and I snaked our way through some thick cover, where he positioned the sticks at 175 yards and whistled. The nicest buck stood up, but my shot was high, kicking up dust behind him. Off they ran, the last springbok we saw on the safari. Disappointing, but that’s hunting.
An unpredictable wind picked up that afternoon and we decided to return to camp a little early. On the way, we scattered a large herd of Burchell’s zebra. They in turn spooked a small group of Hartmann’s mountain zebra. We drove forward to a high plateau, left the bakkie and made to a vantage point. At first, the Hartmann’s were moving away, but the swirling winds carried our scent, reversing their retreat. The zebra came up the opposite side of the plateau, and at 150 yards, the stallion halted, staring at me. He was jittery, and as he turned broadside my shot was good. Denise was able to see it all – her introduction to the wonderful world of safari!
The last day arrived, the priority kudu. Jean took us quite a distance from camp and brought Hunter along, a Jack Russell terrier. Hiking up the first hill that morning, we spotted a kudu across a ravine, a bull Jean estimated in the mid-50″ range. I settled on the sticks, pausing to catch my breath for the certainty of the 250-yard shot.
“Shoot quickly, the kudu won’t stand there for long,” Jean urged. At the shot, the kudu dropped hard. Suddenly it jumped up, running. Re-engaging, I sent two more shots without effect as it disappeared over the hill. I’d forgotten the advice I’d read from PH Tony Tomkinson about kudu. “Reload and keep your sights on him. Remember, the ones that go straight down are often the ones that get straight up again and bugger off for good!”
On the hilltop, Jean, Hafani, and I spread out looking for blood. After 20 minutes, we found bright-red drops, and optimistically followed the trail. Suddenly, Hunter started barking.
“What’s going on?” I yelled. “Hunter kicked out a rabbit,” said Jean. Seconds later, a massive kudu, with magnificent, long, deep, spiraled horns, bounded through the bush about 25 yards away. By the time I shouldered the Sako, he’d gone.
We followed the blood trail for over two miles. The kudu was never visible, but we knew he was aware of us. He would stop, watching his backtrack, and a denser blood splatter would form. The ground was only slightly hilly, but strewn with loose, ankle-twisting rocks, preventing Hunter and us from gaining speed to close the gap for one more shot. Sadly, the blood-trail crossed over an adjoining property fence line.
I imagine that kudu from time to time, browsing on the hillsides, a scar on his flank where a bullet had annoyed him one day.
A Namibian safari offers much opportunity, and regardless of inches of horn, you are ever-grateful when trophies are earned. Jean explained that animals sometimes “shock drop” to non-lethal wounds. Remember PH Tomkinson’s words. You take what is offered, if you earn it.
I’ll heed Africa’s call again, entrusting a “Visited and Verified” outfitter.
And that first night back will be like a welcome home.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”12653,12654,12655,12656,12657″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
