One Lucky Lady

Aug 8, 2017 | News

South Africa: 2007
By Wade Gear

She heard the truck that first day. It seemed to crisscross through her home range, and although it was a constant droning sound it did not affect her rest under the shade of the mopane trees. Her home range was surrounded by thick mopane, and although it overlapped with two young males from her own bloodline, it offered the protection she needed as well as good hunting. She was alone, had not mated in several years, so she hunted only for herself.

It was a very hot July, and her thirst got the better of her early on the second day. The watering hole at Edmonsburg was close by and she knew the elephants would not be there that early. She drank in the muddy water and returned to the protection of the mopane to wait until dark when she could hunt again.

It was late in the afternoon when she first noticed it. Although faint, it was something she would never forget – the smell of humans. While the breeze only brought the slightest scent she knew they were in her territory and it immediately brought back memories from when she was a young adult – the odor, the burning sensation in her hindquarter, the collar on her when she woke. She needed to move to another area to put more distance between her and the humans, so as nightfall came she hunted to the north.

On the third day she noticed it again. It was mid-afternoon. First the distant sound of the truck, then the faint smell, then voices much too close for her liking. The area she had chosen was thick mopane about six feet high, and the ground underneath was sandy. As she lay there testing the air and listening, she realized that they were moving in her direction. When they drew near her she sprang up and growled viciously. As they hesitated, she slipped away, following a well-known path that led her away, slightly circling the humans. In the thick brush she was confident that she had not been seen.

But they were closing in. She moved off at a trot, now headed back to the west. As she crossed a road she saw the vehicle – the man in the back did not see her though she was only 75 yards away. She immediately kept to the thickest areas of brush, taking her pursuers through it and slowing them down in the process, but now she had lost the wind. She needed it in her favor, so once again she circled and headed east back to where she had been.

After several hours of trying to evade her pursuers, she was over-heated and thirsty and needed to head back to Edmonsburg for a drink. As she was about to move back to the south she scented a black rhino, and skirted it at 25 yards, slightly downwind. She heard the commotion, snorts, and the silence that followed as her followers were distracted by the rhino. When darkness fell she heard the drone of the engine fading in the distance, and approached Edmonsburg for a drink. Then it was time to hunt again.

Her territory was large, and as she hunted she once again moved farther south and east from where she had been. Her constant pursuit had taken its toll – the heat and lack of sleep and food was making it more difficult to hunt. And on the fourth day, just after sun-up there it was again – the unmistakable drone of the engine.

Her pursuers came fast. They followed her for miles, pushing and pushing, and by mid-day she needed that drink, and she headed for the stream. She did not know if the stream had any water left, but with the thick brush there was a good chance, and the cover would help conceal her. But the pools had dried up and the cover was too thick to allow her free movement. She was cornered between the mopane and the riverine brush which checked her stealth. At one point she was totally exposed, but with one bound she was hidden again. She moved almost towards her pursuers, looking for the chance to cross the small opening and get back into the thick mopane.

A bushbuck was bedded down close by – she moved so that it would get her scent. The bushbuck snorted and broke. That was her chance. Once again the commotion gave her just enough time to clear the opening on her belly without being seen. She was back in the mopane, but still they followed.

Finally, she was given a break. Her pursuers stopped, which gave her the time to find a shade tree that had a view of her back trail. Taking advantage of the breeze she waited and rested until once again she knew they were following. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity she broke and made for deeper cover, driven by fear, anger and thirst.

Shortly after sunrise on the fifth day she heard the vehicle again. She waited until they were close before she roared and headed off downwind to keep the rancid scent of the humans in her nostrils. This time she kept them close, only moving when it was necessary to remain hidden. But the humans pushed her hard, keeping her moving. She circled close by and behind them, continuing until at one point the scent of the humans was all around her as she walked over her own tracks and theirs. As the sun burned down still hotter she needed water, and broke from her pattern of endless circles and figures-of-eight, and headed towards the waters of Edmonsburg.

There she found a shady spot facing into the breeze, stretched out and slept peacefully the remainder of the day.

Dawn the sixth day found the cat in an area surrounded by mountains on three sides, more open, but almost devoid of roads. It was mid-morning when it happened. The wind had covered the sound of the approaching enemy till suddenly she heard the rustle of leaves and noticed movement: About 40 yards away, three figures looked intently in her direction.

She was frozen in the low grass and shade of the mopane, watching. If she moved now she would be exposed. She waited.

One figure knelt.

She stood to turn away, then heard it – the click of metal.

Nothing but the click.

There was no burning in her flank like before, no drugged awakening – only the sound of the click followed by voices, the voices of her pursuers, and then silence.

She had escaped. She moved once again into thick mopane to sleep the rest of the day. She would sleep all day without being pushed, and then she would hunt. It would be a good day for her.

This story is about one the most memorable hunts I have had. Hunting is not about the kill; it is about the pursuit. I had been given an opportunity to hunt a particularly old lioness that had been part of a lion study project. She was off on her own and had not had cubs for the past two seasons. I was hunting the Venetia Limpopo Nature Reserve with Madubula Safaris in the Limpopo Province of South Africa, and since baiting was prohibited we tracked this particular cat for six days. The “click” was the sound of my double rifle as it misfired at the only good shot that we had during those six days! As I watched her disappear into the brush I could not help but think that it was just not meant to be, and almost a year later I got a call that once again she had had cubs.

My memorable “trophy” is proudly displayed in my trophy room: The bullet that misfired is mounted in a shadow box frame below a picture of one of her tracks in the sand.

Wade is a Texas native who has hunted Alaska, Arizona, New Mexico, Montana and Colorado, plus Africa 12 times, completing the Big Five. As well as being a writer, he believes in teaching his kids to respect the outdoors and wildlife, and that the most important aspect of the hunt is not the kill, but the hunt itself.

The Gift of Africa…Wrapped in a Simple Email

Aug 5, 2017 | News

South Africa: 2014
By Lavon Winkler

The Dark Continent – a mystical land for many, and especially for hunters, young and old. The simple word, “Africa” conjours the magic and mystery embodied in the great writings of Hemingway, Roosevelt, Chapman, and Capstick. This enchanting land has been the catalyst for a plethora of dreams formed and fueled in the hearts and minds of generations.

I recall watching movies set in Africa. There was the 1962 movie, Hatari! (Swahili for “Danger”) starring John Wayne, about a group of professional wildlife catchers. As a child I could hardly wait for Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom on Sunday evening television as Marlin Perkins took us to this land far away and taught us about these amazing animals. For me, this curiosity about Africa rarely waned, and followed me into adult life – Africa was seen as this unique and mysterious land which I desired to someday visit.

As time marched on I wondered if I would ever set foot on that vast continent. Whenever my thoughts strayed to Africa, they’d conclude with, “After all, safari hunting is only for the wealthy, well beyond my financial reach.”

Even so, it was still fun to dream.

Despite the yearning to one day fulfill the dream of Africa, I continued to follow my hunting and fishing passion in North America – the United States, Canada, and Mexico – which are rich with great hunting and fishing opportunities. I truly enjoy the annual pursuit of deer, ducks, geese, rabbits, squirrels, and upland game. But Africa remained neatly tucked away in my sub-conscious as a “maybe, someday” destination. And over the years, while talking with many hunters, I learned that I was not alone in this yearning.

But sometimes, there is that defining moment when an unexpected opportunity arrives and changes one’s life. For me, this happened in 2012 when I met Jim Rice of Cutting Edge Taxidermy in Macon, Missouri.

On opening day of the 2012 firearm season for whitetail deer in Missouri USA, I was fortunate to take a nice buck on my farm. I took the deer to Cutting Edge Taxidermy to see if they would be willing to do a shoulder mount. The shop was swarming with hunters dropping off whitetail deer and an occasional bobcat, but I was warmly greeted by Jim, and without delay he went to work, caping my deer.

As I looked around, I noticed something significantly different about this small community taxidermy studio – there were African mounts everywhere! Beautiful plains-game mounts and spiral horns. Once home, I emailed Jim about a slight change for the mounting instructions for my deer, and casually mentioned I dreamed of someday hunting in Africa. A few hours later I received his reply:

“I am taking three or four guys to Africa in 2014. Why don’t you go with us?”

“When you come to the fork in the road, take it,” Yogi Berra once said. I did just that!

This would be Jim’s sixth safari to Africa, having hunted in Namibia and South Africa. He knew the ropes, had the contacts, and takes great joy in being with hunters when they experience Africa for the first time. Lora, my wife and best friend, agreed to join me in this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

This was the trigger point for an onslaught of emails to Jim asking every question possible about hunting in Africa: gun selection, shot placement, ammunition, field care of the hides and horns, the outfitter, the PH, what we would eat, what to wear, temperatures, weather conditions… He answered my questions in great detail. I thought he was taking me on a hunting trip – but Jim knew he was training a safari hunter. I am amazed Jim didn’t go crazy trying to keep up with my endless curiosity. However, because I have taken many first time fly-in anglers to the remote corners of Ontario, Canada, I appreciated and respected the time Jim invested in me and Eric Krichbaum, the third hunter in our group. Like me, Eric was a rookie safari hunter, and he too, had many questions about our upcoming adventure.

After over a year of planning, preparation, and revising my “hopeful” list of animals many times, in May 2014 we boarded the plane for South Africa.

“I will experience this hunt of a lifetime and my desire for Africa will be satisfied,” I had assured Lora. I had read the articles and books that talked about Africa always calling you to return, but I just thought this was simply folklore for selling books and magazines.

All of our hunting was on three concessions in Northern Limpopo very near the banks of the Limpopo River and Botswana. Our base was Ingala Lodge, and my PH was Manuel van Rooyen with Madala Safaris. There have been many articles written about the magic of a hunter’s first safari to Africa – and rightfully so. It’s an experience beyond description. To see all the animals in their natural habitat is both enlightening and inspiring, although with the population growth, loss of habitat, poaching, and the re-emergence of the safari industry post 1980, it is not the Africa of Hemingway. However, it is still Africa.

Our safari was for seven days, and I hunted with Manuel exclusively since I had a rather long wish list. Jim and Eric hunted together for most of the week, which worked well because they wanted different plains game. I soon learned this hunting approach was different from my other hunting experiences – using the vehicle to spot the animals followed by a spot and stalk approach on foot, instead of sitting in a blind.

On my first day I took a beautiful female Burchell’s zebra and a waterbuck. Around the lapa that evening, the reality of being in South Africa had yet to soak in. Each day was filled with adventure, expectation, exuberance, disappointment, frustration, and celebration – each day filled with awe for this amazing land and its great people.

The hospitality of the outfitter and staff was exceptional. I learned much from Jim and Manuel, and was very impressed with the skinners, while the ability of the native trackers to find, follow, and interpret spoor is something to behold.

After seven days of hunting, seven days of highs and lows, I ended my safari with new friendships, nine animals and a lifetime of memories. Among my animals taken was an eland and, on the last morning, a beautiful kudu. As we were preparing to leave Ingala for our drive to Johannesburg, I knew I had one large problem. Having experienced this magical place, Africa now had a powerful grip on my mind and heart.

I knew I wanted to go back again, and I didn’t know how I was going to break the news to Lora. On the flight, and once home, I still kept thinking, “Africa is calling, and I must return.” When I did tell Lora she smiled, unsurprised, and was completely supportive. I did go in 2015 and hunted a lioness and other plains game (see African Hunting Gazette 21.4 Spring 2016 edition).

To say that Africa has impacted on my life is an understatement. That simple email from Jim Rice and his kind act in inviting me to hunt with him not only fulfilled a lifelong dream – it opened the door for me to see this continent in a way I never dreamed possible. It’s not only the geography and the wide variety of animals to which I am drawn. Most importantly, it’s the people. It’s establishing connections with the outfitters, the PHs, and all of the people that make the safari experience possible. Africa is not just a place. It is not just an experience. It is also a collection of people where a multitude relies upon the hunting industry for its livelihood. As in other parts of this world, in Africa there are many folk who each day struggle to survive. Through subsequent travels with Lora to South Africa and Ethiopia, doors of opportunity have opened for us to join efforts with others who are focused on the plight of orphans in many countries in Africa.

I am planning my next trip to Africa, taking a small group on their first safari. There is something very uplifting about seeing a hunter’s first safari and it would be great to read about it in a future edition of the African Hunting Gazette.

Hunting in Africa is within the affordable reach of many hunters who have assumed otherwise. If you have ever dreamed of hunting in Africa, make a plan and GO! If you have wanted to get even a glimpse of Africa and its amazing geographical and animal diversity, do not wait.

Develop your plan and GO.

Don’t wait for “someday” or “one of these days.”

Go to Africa…now!

Listen closely…Africa is calling…

Lavon Winkler loves the outdoors and the challenges of hunting and fishing for a variety of species mostly in North America. Lavon started hunting at age 10 with his dad and brother. While most of his hunting has been for small game and whitetail deer in the Midwest, he has developed a passion for hunting the broad variety of animal species in South Africa. In two safaris, he achieved the SCI “African 15” Continental Award, and has 10 entries in the SCI Record Book including a Gold Level Sable.

Box

Browning A-Bolt 30-06 – Excellent rating

Ammunition and bullet details and satisfaction rating: Hornady Superformance – GMX 165gr – Excellent Rating

Riflescope details and satisfaction rating: Leupold VX-2 4-12×40 – Excellent Rating

Taxidermist and satisfaction rating (only if you have received your trophies) – Jim Rice, Cutting Edge Taxidermy – Excellent Rating

Roan Antelope, a Twenty-Year Dream

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Burkin Faso: 2015
Roan Antelope, a Twenty-Year Dream
by Kim Stuart

A splay-legged giraffe sipped from the coffee-colored waterhole. A scrappy band of baboons harassed each other in between quick drinks of water. Then, as if choreographed by an African documentary director, a young bull elephant passed beneath our treestand, close enough for us to smell the dusty, earthy, dung aroma. It was the second night of our first African safari…

My wife and I hoped to see a sable antelope come to water, but our only visitor was an antelope I will never forget – one that made an impression that etched into the memory of a novice hunter. A roan bull strutted into the clearing as though the area was his domain. Black and white face, graceful, curving ringed horns, and robust, rust-colored body, he was a vision of the perfect African antelope. There was a tap on my back from our PH. As I slowly turned to acknowledge him, his eyes and subtle headshake told the story as he mouthed, “Don’t you dare shoot, he’s protected.”

The unobtainable is always more desirable. I compare the emotions of that evening to one’s first car or first true love. The indelible impressions were the basis of many other safaris planned over the next 20 years, always with the image of that beautiful roan distinctively framed in the dim light of a Zimbabwean dusk.

Now, almost 20 years to the month from that first safari in Zimbabwe, and a couple of dozen African safaris later, the opportunity to hunt a roan finally became a possibility.

I had read Craig Boddington’s article on Arly Safaris located in Burkina Faso, in which he described the great number of roan available. I was hooked! I began the booking process by calling agent Arjun Reddy of Hunters Networks in Brewster, N.Y. and contacting my hunting buddy Jim Gefroh, to see if he was available for the December 2014 hunt. Fortunately he was! With the help of our very creative travel agent, all was arranged.

Then, in the fall of 2014, the West African Ebola crises hit three countries bordering Burkina Faso – we decided to postpone the hunt until the Ebola epidemic was under control.

Another year went by and the possibility of hunting a roan was on the back burner again!

Finally, December 2015 it was all systems go. We arrived in Ouagadougou and were met by our interpreter Aruna Sourou. We continued for another 12 hours by vehicle to the Arly Safaris camp on 40 thousand hectares in the eastern part of the country, not far from the boarder of Benin.

After a 20-year wait, my anticipation was bursting for the combined hunt for savannah buffalo, kob, hartebeest, reedbuck, warthog, duiker and, of course, roan.

We were the first hunters in camp for the season. The elephant grass was tall because of the late rains, and the only way to increase visibility for ourselves and the hunters to come was to burn the grass at every opportunity. Smoke from the fires obscured the sun with a hazy veil that obliterated a view of a mountain range we didn’t see until three days into the hunt when a strong wind blew the smoke from the valley. Then we started to see game… but no roan.

The first animal taken was a decent sized kob. One shot on the shoulder confirmed my Tikka T3 300 WSM was spot on. The next day our team of PH Ishmail and his brother, our driver and tracker, located a herd of about 50 buffalo. With the females bringing up the rear and a few good shootable bulls near the front of the herd, they were worth pursuing. Guessing where they were headed, we drove in a circuitous route to cut them off. Our tactic worked perfectly. Setting up on the shooting sticks just moments before the lead bull entered a clearing, I took a shot with my Chapuis 9.3x74R single trigger double rifle. The soft round hit the solid object. The buffalo slowed at first, but then took off at full speed directly into the thickest, densest brush around, offering almost zero visibility.

Going in blind was not an option. We crept closer in the vehicle to a tree located near the point the buffalo entered the bush, and sent the tracker up the tree for a look. From the higher branches, he motioned that he could see a dark spot toward the far side of the thicket. We slowly moved the Land Cruiser in that direction.

As we edged closer, the buffalo boiled out of the densest part of the bush and straight for the front of the Land Cruiser. He stopped short, with no daylight between his horns and the grill of the vehicle, whirled, and disappeared back into hiding. This happened in seconds, and neither the PH nor I had the opportunity to shoot – not that we would, as shooting from a vehicle is illegal in most African countries.

The buffalo was slightly more visible now in a less dense part of the thicket. Finally he gave us an opportunity to finish the deadly game. We left the truck and, stalking shoulder to shoulder, Ishmail and I eased closer to the semi-hidden buffalo. As he sensed our closeness and turned for a final confrontation, we fired at the same time, and the old bull slowly dropped. His worn horns, cuts and scars told a story of a tough old creature, a true Dagga Boy.

After a close examination of the buffalo it was obvious that my first shot had passed slightly to the rear of the point of his shoulder as he walked toward me at a quartering angle, enough to the rear to miss all the vitals, exiting the far side about mid-rib high. Reason enough that enabled him to fight so gallantly.

And still, the only roan we saw were on a dead run away from the vehicle, or when they spotted us on foot.

On the afternoon of the fifth day our tracker, nicknamed L’homme aux bons yeux –

“The man with good eyes”, spotted some warthogs rooting along a dry riverbed. With mixed instructions from our PH speaking French to our interpreter, who relayed to me which warthog to shoot, and from buddy Jim standing directly behind me, who realized I was looking at the wrong animal, we finally sorted out which warthog was the correct one. A single shot quickly did the job and, much to the delight of the crew, didn’t destroy front quarter, back-straps, or the hams. We enjoyed a generous portion of the succulent flesh for dinner that evening. The boar was also a long-awaited trophy as in all the previous trips to Africa I had not been fortunate enough to get a decent warthog.

Day Six was much the same: haze, smoke and very few roan sightings. We covered many miles straining our eyes to see any animals at all. Late in the afternoon we had a bit of luck with the wind in our favour, and bumped a small herd of slow-moving roan. Leaving the truck and moving cautiously through the stubby burned grass and sparse leafless trees, we closed to about 170 yards of an unsuspecting bull, standing broadside, at the back of the herd. He was totally unaware of us. Other than a slight buffeting of wind coming from the right, the scenario was a routine, no-problem shot. I eased into my familiar triangle shooting sticks, ones I had practiced with and used successfully dozens of times.

There was no buck fever, no pressure, no hurry. Relying on over fifty years of shooting skills, using a weapon I had been familiar with for years, military experience, forty years of hunting, including the taking of dangerous game with a handgun and black powder rifle, I confidently let out part of a breath, and gently squeezed the trigger… and blew the shot.

Yeah, a clean miss. No excuses, no second guessing, no “what if….” I just blew it!

First, in a state of disbelief, followed by immense disappointment, possibly a twenty-year dream shattered in a second, there was nothing to do but check for spoor. We were diligent in our attempt to find something – anything – that spoke of a wounded roan. Our wonderful tracker, unequaled PH, his brother, our driver, Aruna our interpreter, and Jim and I all tried in vain to find a spot of blood or telltale sign of a wounded animal. We came up empty, and the only conclusion was that I had not wounded the roan, that he flinched at the sound of the shot and not from being hit.

However it was too late in the day to make another stalk even if we did run into a group of roan. A quiet and pensive crew called it a day and headed back to camp.

I owe a great debt to all the guys I hunted with that day. Before, during, and after dinner they joked and kidded me, making light of my missed shot on the roan, and how the next day would provide another opportunity. Secretly I wondered, and that night spent sleepless hours going over my shot and what I had done wrong.

Day seven, the last day of the hunt, we were greeted by the usual amount of smoke and haze. Visibility was compromised, and seeing any game that was not close to the road, was difficult. We cruised for hours hoping for a roan sighting, but with no luck. As our enthusiasm waned and mid-day approached, our tracker pointed excitedly – roan! Sure enough, a small herd of mixed females and males, young and old, drifted off into the sparse brush and trees at a ninety degree angle away from the vehicle. We quietly came to a halt, eased out of the cruiser and tentatively began a stalk toward the last few visible animals.

“The last one on the right is very nice, shoot him on the shoulder, he is at just over seventy yards,” whispered Ishmail excitedly. Easing on to the sticks and trying not to think about the blown shot the day before, I found the point of the shoulder and instinctively squeezed the trigger. A solid, “whump” telegraphed a good hit, and all of the crew let out a sigh of relief. We closed on the downed roan bull, and a final coup ended our hunt for the roan.

I was content. Shooting another animal was pointless.

What had been a twenty-year dream, almost an obsession, at times a fleeting image of a distant memory, finally came to fruition on that smoky afternoon on the Arly Safari concession in Eastern Burkina Faso in the time it took for my bullet to travel a short seventy yards.

Bio

Kim is a member of the African Big Five Hunting Society, Outdoor Writers Association of California, and S.C.I. Muzzleloading Hall of Fame. He has written a number of articles for AHG as well as other hunting magazines. The second edition of “Dangerous Game Animals of Africa, One Man’s Quest” is nearing completion and chronicles the taking of the Magnificent Seven with a handgun, muzzleloader and rifle.

Books may be ordered by contacting Kim at kimbelstuart@yahoo.com

BOX

Jim and I visited a village not far from the camp. The small farming community of about four hundred people contributed full- and part-time labor to the camp’s needs. Women were doing washing at a communal well. The local school consisted of three mud classrooms, and what we saw in them was pathetic.

Apart from a thin, almost totally worn out blackboard and a few scruffy, dog-eared books, there were no teaching aids. In each building were fifty kids of different ages, five to ten years old, most deplorably dressed in torn and ragged T-shirts and filthy shorts. The few “desks” were stacked mud blocks with two to three children crowding around each one. Some kids were just sitting on the dirt floor. Although the teacher in each room was well dressed and seemed dedicated to teaching some basics, the lack of natural light, filthy conditions and zero teaching aids, left us wanting to do something.

Not knowing the situation in advance, we were totally unprepared to do anything significant.

The only immediate help we could offer was a donation of new T-shirts and shorts for each child, which Aruna organised.

I encourage all hunters to go beyond the compounds of their hunting camp, explore the area, visit a village, ask if there are local schools and clinics, and do something, anything, to help. A small gesture from hunters could be something very meaningful to a child or family in rural Africa – or any remote place in the world a hunter might visit.

Jim and I made a commitment to pay the high school tuition for Johnny, a fourteen-year-old boy who helped out in the camp kitchen. He was an exceptionally bright and eager young fellow, and a worthy beneficiary of a simple donation.

Two Thousand Leopards Later

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Mozambique: 2009
Two Thousand Leopards Later…
By Bob Adkins

I’ve “shot” over 2,000 leopards in the recent past, but the one I was presently watching was about to escape. This particular leopard was in Mozambique. Specifically, it was in Simon Rodger’s Safaris de Mozambique Bawa Concession on the southwestern shores of Lake Cahora Bassa.

My friend Jack Hodnik had come over one snowy Alaskan afternoon the previous February and announced, “I inherited some money last fall, and I’m going to use it to take Bob Jensen on an elephant hunt in Mozambique. He’s always wanted to hunt elephant.” (Bob was my next door neighbor and one of Jack’s long-time friends.)

“By the way, you’re invited along to hunt that leopard you’re always talking about. You’ll have to pay for your own transportation over and back, but I’ll pay for everything else. All you have to do is tell me your stories when you get back to camp each night.” What an offer!

Jack, an educator in Alaska’s bush for many years, had retired and moved to Haines after suffering a heart attack and stroke several years ago. His stroke left him unable to get around in the woods, so Bob Jensen and I were to “proxy hunt” for him on this safari. He would ride along and video whatever he could from the vehicles. Bob and I would then recount our experiences as we all sat around the evening campfires.

Bob J. and I both had reservations about this, but Jack eventually convinced us that we would be helping him fulfill his life-long dream of going on an African safari, so we finally accepted.

Everything I read about leopard hunting led me to believe that they have a mysterious and disconcerting effect on people. Hunters that could normally hit running rabbits at 300 yards tend to panic and fire their rifles into the air when leopards are the target. As soon as I realized that this leopard hunt was really going to happen, I decided to practice. And practice. And practice some more!

I burned over a thousand rounds of ammunition on trips to our local rifle range. I pinned two 8” x 10” leopard photos to my den wall, one quartering towards the viewer, and one broadside. A camera tripod served double-duty as a rest for my rifle. Every evening I carefully dry-fired 15 or 20 times at one or the other of my leopard photos.

Mentally coaching myself, I repeated over and over again: “Pick a rosette …hold your breath … s-q-u-e-e-z-e the trigger … follow through …” Over a period of four months, I “shot” over 2,000 leopards, and now the real thing was at hand.

For eight days we had driven slowly up and down the primitive one-lane tracks on Simon Rodgers’s million-acre concession. Some days Jack went with us, and other days he chose to go with Bob J. and his PH, Bryn Jolliffe. Each morning we checked our growing number of baits and then looked for more impala to put up yet another. The truck crawled up and down the steep banks of the myriad dry sandy riverbeds, and over promontories pockmarked with huge rocks and boulders, caves and cliffs. The hilly mopane woodland was ideal leopard habitat. The suspense and anticipation grew stronger day by day. When would a shootable leopard be attracted to our baits?

Every day we’d see lots of other animals, and if we saw a herd of impala or a male warthog or bushbuck, I’d jump out and grab the shooting sticks that Obert, Greg’s head tracker, had waiting, and make a stalk. Often the animals would run, but occasionally curiosity would get the better of one, and my rifle would come up on the shooting sticks, a bullet would speed through he thornbush, mopane scrub and tall grass, and another leopard bait or incidental trophy would be procured. One morning Jack was able to video the entire sequence as I spined a nice 21-inch impala ram.

I kept reminding myself I was in Mozambique, hunting real live flesh and blood leopards. But the first one I’d ever seen had just left the bait and climbed down out of the tree…

We could hear the sound of bones snapping and the occasional grunt and growl even before we got into the blind, so we knew there was a leopard on the bait that morning. We had slowly and quietly crept along the trail to the blind in our stocking feet, guided by PH Greg Michelson’s barely visible toilet paper markers. Reaching the blind in the dark just before six a.m., all we could do was sit and listen as the leopard ate at the impala wired to the underside of a tree branch.

We had sat in this blind the previous evening until full dark, hearing baboons curse, guinea fowl chatter and flush, hornbills squawk, and vervet monkeys scream in the distance – but no leopard appeared. While checking our baits the previous morning, the eighth day of our hunt, we found that a large male and female had discovered the bait and eaten nearly all of it. We replenished the bait with another impala, my ninth, and built a blind. Then we waited and waited, but the leopards didn’t show. (Meanwhile, Jack had decided to go with Bob J. and Bryn – he was concerned that he might spook the leopard while trying to sneak into the blind with us in the darkness.)

At 6.15 a.m. there was just a hint of light in the eastern sky. From 80 yards, the distance from our blind to the bait, we could barely make out the outline of the bait tree in the gloom of the predawn morning. As binoculars and riflescope details slowly became clearer, we saw that the leopard was leaving the bait and slowly making its way down the tree before we could identify its gender. Only males are legal game in Mozambique.

I was bitterly disappointed, but Greg motioned me to sit down and remain quiet. We sat there dejectedly for several minutes when, suddenly, we heard the unmistakable sounds of a leopard feeding again. As we cautiously looked, I could see a leopard back on the bait, but couldn’t positively identify its gender. It fed for several minutes, changing positions occasionally. As it turned broadside, we saw it was a male.

“Shoot the bastard,” whispered Greg. All my practice paid off. The crosshairs came to rest on a prominent dark rosette behind the leopard’s right shoulder. Half a breath … hold it … and the .300 Winchester magnum went off almost by itself. I’d practiced the same scenario hundreds of times. As Yogi Berra would say – it was déjà vu all over again.

I lost sight of the leopard during recoil, but seconds after the shot we heard a thud, followed by a low grunt. Then … silence.

“How did your sight picture look?” Greg whispered.

“Perfect!” I responded.

“Well,” said Greg, “he ran off! I’ll get the truck and my shotgun, and we’ll go dig him out of the brush. And you stay in the blind.”

I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. Everything had looked flawless, but I still spent the next 30 minutes worried sick that I had wounded this beautiful, but very dangerous, animal, and now we were going to have to go after him.

Greg drove down a little side trail to within 100 yards of the bait tree. I heard the vehicle grinding closer and closer and then stopping. I heard Greg load his shotgun and cautiously start through the brush towards the tree. Then a pause.

“Bob, he’s right here under the tree,” he shouted. “He’s dead! Way to go, buddy.”

A tidal wave of relief and euphoria swept over me. The trackers were ecstatic, and Greg was as pleased as he could be. Greg and his crew had done a first-class job of putting me in position to take the leopard I’d dreamed of for over fifteen years. They had all worked really hard for eight full days, and then allowed me to pull the trigger.

My leopard had died instantly and fell out of the tree into the dry sandy riverbed. There was no sign that he’d even twitched after he hit the ground. We would have exciting stories for Jack around the campfire tonight!

As we waited for the sun to come up enough to take pictures, Greg radioed Bryn, Bob J’s PH, with the news of our successful leopard hunt.

At the same time Bryn told Greg that Bob J. had just shot an elephant, and that Jack had been able to see it all. They had caught a small herd ravaging a village maize field.

“We took the herd’s leader – still had corn on its breath,” he said.

However, that’s a story for another campfire.

Bob Adkins moved from Michigan to Alaska in 1964 and spent 32 years in public education. He has degrees in engineering, math and physics, counseling, and school administration. He has spent 14 summers as captain of his own commercial fishing boat, and 12 summers as a commercial bush/air taxi pilot in southeast Alaska. He is married and has two adult daughters.

He is a self-taught photographer, and since retiring from education in 1996 has photographed extensively in Alaska, the Yukon, the Pacific Northwest, England, Europe, and southern Africa. His photos and articles have appeared in numerous magazines, calendars, books, CD covers, and news journals from coast to coast and in Europe.

Burkina Buffalo Magic

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Burkina Faso: 2017
Burkina Buffalo Magic
By Glaeser Conradie from African Echo Safaris
The sun was not out yet, but there was just enough light to notice the small herd of buffalo moving slowly across the broken savannah about 500 metres to our right. The Sahara winds crossing over from Mali in the north created a misty sky that contributed to the magic of entering the unknown.

The driver, unaware of the buffalo, continued driving. Everyone on the back was as silent as the night. Buffalo don’t seem to mind the Land Cruiser’s distant diesel engine rumbling, but any human voices will travel crisply through the early morning air and surely alert them. About 700 metres further, the tracker tapped on the cabin roof of the Cruiser. The wind was perfect. We couldn’t mess this up. Although everybody had had a good night’s rest, we had walked about 18 km the first day, following two bachelor herds. The West African sun is merciless and the dry air sucks up all the moisture in your body. At least that’s how it feels.

The sun was barely showing its glancing rays over the baobab-covered horizon, and the early morning air was still cool. Everybody was on high alert. Things happened fast. Within literally a few seconds, everyone was walking in single file on the way to break the line of the approaching buffalo. Christian Jensen was close behind me with his Steyr Mannlicher .375 H&H Magnum. Christian and his lovely wife Vivi, followed perfectly in line. I never needed to correct their positions while stalking – and for good reason, which I was only to find out at the end of the hunt. We didn’t have to walk too far in order to be in perfect position. With Christian on the home-made shooting sticks, he was ready – safety off. The herd slowly moved past us about 50 metres away – females, a few calves and a young male. As we got off the vehicle and quickly glassed them, I was sure I saw a bigger body within the herd. Then he appeared at the back of the herd, walking behind a large female.
“The one at the back?” I heard Christian whisper.
“Yes, take him when he’s clear.” The female got ahead and the shot went off.
“Reload, safety on and stay right behind me,” I said while taking the shooting sticks. We saw the dust dancing around in the misty dawn air as the big old bull stumbled and fell. Although it was a well-placed shot, the buffalo was not yet dead. Christian shot again, and the Norma African PH 300-grain bullet did a perfect job.
Christian, not a man of too many words, was overjoyed, and the setting was perfect for the trophy photos. The sincere joy among the whole team in such a beautiful environment, after such an exciting hunt reminded me once more why I’m so extremely fortunate to do what I do for a living!

With hunting in West Africa, especially Burkina Faso, the animal is seldom quartered in the bush. It is first dragged by the Cruiser to the closest suitable tree, pulled up a few metres from the ground over a thick branch, then is lowered into the vehicle below. Most clients want a shoulder mount, so we try and keep the buffalo on its belly while dragging, with the shoulders off the ground. So if you ever come to hunt buffalo in Burkina Faso, try and shoot it close to a big tree. 

We took the buffalo back to camp and had brunch and short rest before returning to the concession. Each member of the team enjoys a coke or beer – the clients, driver, trackers, game scout and me. Sharing hunting moments with the whole team is very much part of the West African hunting tradition. And it’s not just a beer and saying “Thank you.” The locals are extremely happy for the client, and relive the hunt relive the hunt in Móorè, their local language. Although French is the most commonly spoken language in Burkina Faso, in the rural areas the local dialect is generally used.

Talking about traditions – West Africa is full of them! With buffalo and especially lion hunting, sacrifices (mostly chickens or goats), strange rituals and prayers are very common. Early morning the vehicle will suddenly stop at the beginning of the concession. I then indicate to the clients to keep quiet, although they are desperate to know why.
“What is going on?!” Then they see the trackers making four small fires a few metres away from the hunting vehicle, facing each wind direction. Oually, the head tracker, will sometimes ask for the client’s rifle and slowly move it through the smoke. Oually normally leads these ceremonies. Regarding religion, Burkina Faso consists mostly of Catholics and Muslims, but most of the people are animists. Often chicken or goat meat will be placed in trees as an offer to nature. This is all part of the experience. Hunting in Burkina Faso is far more than just a hunt!

Even the drive from Ouagadougou to the concession, about 280 km southeast of the capital, is an experience. Depending on the state of the roads, the drive can vary between five to seven hours. Photo opportunities are plentiful. Public transport takes on a whole new dimension. Often you will see motorbikes with pigs tied onto the back, taxis with scooters and livestock (from goats to cattle) on the roof, as well as buses transporting literally anything from people to donkeys. An American or European traffic officer would have an immediate nervous breakdown!

Anyway, back to the hunt.
Next up was Vivi using the same rifle as her husband and looking for the same trophy as well. We spent the next few days leaving camp after a 04h30 breakfast, following buffalo herds varying from large ones of over a hundred to smaller bachelor herds. The best scenario would be to find a lone old Dagga bull and track him down. Some days we covered up to 20 km and drank up to five litres of water a day. I always advise clients to bring some electrolytes to help supplement lost minerals and salts. It helps a lot to boost energy, especially after a long walk.

Normally around 11h30 it becomes hot, and we relax in the shade close by the Wamou River. Lunchtime while hunting in Burkina Faso is a different experience from other concessions in Africa. You realize that lunch is drawing near when the trackers’ attention turns from buffalo to guinea fowl. I tell the clients that shotguns might be fired from the back of the Cruiser, from approximately 11h00 onwards. Some clients are quite shocked when they realize that they are not the only hunters there, but they get to realize that it is part of the deal in this neck of the woods. The trackers prepare the guinea fowls on a small fire while our packed lunch is served. After we have enjoyed canned sardines, cold pasta salad, bread and boiled eggs, the trackers will offer some of their precious game bird meat. Dressed with olive oil, salt and pepper and served on fresh green leaves, it’s really good! Not to mention the ice-cold beer and soft drinks in the cooler box, with fresh fruit for dessert.
Our afternoon naps are often disturbed by hippos snorting nearby in the river, and the ever-present group of vultures that surround us looking for food.

As we left the camp on the last day everybody on the Cruiser knew that it was now or never. We found fresh tracks just before sunrise and followed hard and fast. The sun was just about to rise when the tracker in front of me whispered, “Lions.” Great was our surprise when we realized that we and the lions were both stalking the same herd of buffalo! We could hear them roaring in frustration as they trotted off.

About 45 minutes later the herd of buffalo started to feed, moving very slowly. This gave us time to set up and get Vivi into a shooting position. There were two good-sized bulls. One was slightly reddish, and the other, a bigger black bull was behind a bush far to the left of the herd. He was about 70 metres away – we couldn’t get any closer. As soon as he appeared, the shot went off. I didn’t see any reaction from the bull or hear any thud sound of the bullet impact.

The herd ran off – as well as Vivi’s bull. Vivi is a very good shot, so something was wrong. She assured me that it was a steady shot. We followed up immediately and spent the next 30 minutes looking for blood. We found nothing. Then the game scout pointed out a small tree that Vivi had hit – about 50 cm behind the buffalo. Everybody was a bit disappointed, Vivi most of all.

We decided to sight the rifle again, have an early lunch and hunt right through the day. It was the last day after all. Sure enough, the rifle was way out. How this happened, we don’t know. After quickly bore-sighting the rifle, Vivi put a few perfect shots in a target at 50 metres. No time to over-analyze the situation; we had to get a buffalo.

Roughly 20 minutes after leaving our early picnic spot, we saw a herd of Dagga bulls a good 200 metres away. The wind was right and they were staring at us through some tall grass. We remained motionless for them to calm down and let get off the truck. After about 20 minutes following their tracks, the tracker indicated that they had joined a bigger herd of buffalo. Not the perfect situation, but we continued for another hour and a half. Again the herd slowed down to feed. This was around 16h30. We didn’t have much time left. We found an old bull more or less in the middle of the spread-out herd of buffalo. This time the distance was about 90 meters and again we probably would have given our presence away by stalking any closer. We put Vivi on the sticks, and I took a few seconds explaining exactly which buffalo to take. Just as the shot went off, it moved.

Missed again! Everybody was quiet. I felt sorry for Vivi. We were hunting so hard together as a team and everyone felt her disappointment. As I put my hand on her shoulder for some reassurance, the tracker pulled me by the arm pointing at the herd of buffalo slowing down. A few hundred metres on, they had started to walk. They probably didn’t see, hear or smell us, and were getting relaxed before sunset. I told Vivi to reload and put the safety on. She was more than ready to oblige! We followed as quickly as possible until we spotted the herd moving slowly through some broken bush. This time they were all mixed up and it was extremely difficult to identify an older bull. They were constantly moving – although slowly – and it was not easy to identify one and take a shot. The herd was about 50 metres away. The time was 17h20 – very close to our cut-off time. As Burkina Faso is not too far north of the equator, dusk turns to night very quickly.

We put Vivi on the sticks. Suddenly the game scout vigorously started pointing at a buffalo roughly in the middle of the herd. “It’s an old bull,” one whispered. How these guys can identify the animals without binoculars, I don’t know. We confirmed exactly which buffalo to take. This was it. The shot went off and the buffalo went down on the spot. I immediately told Vivi to reload and stay right behind me while approaching the fallen animal. Experience tells that when a buffalo goes down, it definitely does not mean that he is not still extremely dangerous, let alone dead. After making sure that everything was safe and the job was well done, we let go.

Vivi was in heaven! And so was her husband. I turned to Vivi and gave her a solid kiss on the cheek. “You have your buffalo,” I said. High-fives and congratulations were going around while the hero of the day, the game scout, went off to call the driver.
“One of the best hunts of my life,” Vivi said while we were positioning the buffalo for photos. The light was fading fast and we worked quickly.

It was then that Christian and Vivi told me they are both qualified professional hunters as well. Hunting is their passion. A few things started to make sense to me. They were really both very hard-working hunters and I never had to tell them what to do.

On the way back to camp, a good two hours’ drive, everybody was quiet for a while. With a cold one in hand, we needed to relive the perfect end to a safari, from different perspectives, I’m sure, but all with a happy ending.

Burkina Faso provides some of the best hunting in Africa and combined with the friendly people of this West African country, makes for a unique hunting experience. The accommodation is modest and basic (with air-conditioning and daily laundry service). The food is reasonable to good but nothing beats the hunting!

Burkina Faso is a brilliant example of the direct influence hunting has on conservation. As in many other African countries, most of the wildlife unfortunately is only to be found in the hunting blocks. These are normally the only areas regularly patrolled against poaching. There are a few national parks but in most cases a lack of funds results in inadequate anti-poaching efforts.

African Echo Safaris have been hunting this 260 000 ha concession in the Eastern Province of Burkina Faso for seven years. The concession is for real hunters – it’s open, it’s challenging, and definitely mystical!

Professional Hunter and Hunting Outfitter, Glaeser Conradie, a member of SCI, PHASA and ACP (Confirmé), is a qualified and licensed dangerous-game hunter and experienced field guide. African Echo Safaris operates in Burkina Faso, Mozambique, South Africa and Zambia.

BOX

On a good day we easily see elephant, hippo, crocodile, buffalo, roan antelope, western hartebeest, sing-sing waterbuck, Nigerian bohor reedbuck and western kob. At least once or twice a week we can run into lion. The harnessed bushbuck is a bit shy, but we regularly take beautiful trophies.
BOX:
The best months for hunting are between January and April. January to March is still reasonable temperaturewise, but the last part of March can get quite hot (40 degrees plus). March and April are good for lion hunting with April getting very hot! The reason is that there are fewer lagoons and waterholes available, which makes it a bit easier to find the lions. Unlike other areas in Africa, baiting for lion is not allowed. We have to track them down. This really offers extremely good hunting!

Burkina “Fiasco” Safari

Aug 5, 2017 | News