Feb 28, 2017 | News
South Africa: 2015
First African Safari – Hunting with Dirk
By Michael G. Mathis
I landed in Johannesburg with my son Michael G. Mathis Jr after an uneventful flight, and after a three-hour wait in Customs, we boarded the plane to Port Elizabeth. As we’d had only thirty minutes left to board the flight, I was glad I had the pre-approved firearm permit which prevented further delays.
We arrived in PE, and on our way to the Mayogi Safari Lodge which is situated in a canyon that teemed with wildlife in the foothills and surrounding mountains, we spotted impala, springbok, and kudu. Mayogi Safaris is a first-class, fair-chase operation on 35 000 acres owned by the family since 1882, and the only bait and blind hunts are for baboons and jackal.
We had an early night. The next morning at breakfast we met the camp staff and then were off to the rifle range to sight in the guns. I had both of my pre-64 Winchester Model 70s. My .30-06 with a Leupold VX-ll in 2-7X and a .375 H&H Magnum with a Leupold VX-lll in 1.75-6X sighted in a little over an inch high at 200 yards as I was advised that shots would be 100-350 yards. Both guns were pretty much on, so no adjustments were needed. Dirk, our PH for the first two days, was most impressed with the pre-64 Wins, especially the .375 H&H. He and most hunters we met in Africa carried Winchester model 70s and admired pre-64s.
En route to the range with our cameraman JG du Toit and Baby the tracker, we had passed a small herd of springbok and a smaller group of impala. As we approached the range we saw two beautiful sable bulls – the only sable we would see during the trip. Sable was not in our package, so it was great to see them.
We left the range and the safari began. I intended to start the safari with my .375 H&H and only shoot a kudu and impala. However, my son refused to hunt until I had shot everything on our quota which included blesbok, springbok, and duiker.
While scouting in the foothills, Dirk spotted a herd of blesbok in the distance, so we drove a short way and then began to stalk for about a mile. We followed a streambed and climbed out, two small ridges before the spot where the blesbok were gathered. Then Dirk stopped and pointed to an area of dense cover about 200yards away down in the streambed to our right. I looked and looked but could not see the herd, or any animals. Dirk put the sticks up, set my rifle in them and told me to look through the scope. I looked and sighted the head of a beautiful trophy-class impala ram above the brush: It was perfectly centred in my scope.
“Take him?” I asked Dirk.
“Yes.”
BANG! The impala dropped from sight, and the herd exploded from the bush, scattering in all directions. It was very similar to shooting whitetail deer in the thick stuff in Pennsylvania.
“You missed; shot right over him,” said Dirk.
I said calmly and softly, “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made a good shot, I think I got him.”
“Where did you aim?”
I pointed to my left chest.
“Well, you do have a .375 so it might have gone right through him and it was the dust kicked up behind him. Man, you shoot fast!”
Dirk sent Baby, the tracker, down to take a look. The impala lay right where he’d been standing. The round went from his left chest, diagonally through him, exiting in front of the right hindquarter. After Baby attended to the impala, we continued the stalk to the blesbok.
Up a small ridge, down in the stream again and then up the next ridge. The small herd of blesbok was across the canyon on the side of a hill. Dirk told me to shoot the sixth one from the left. I mentally counted till I got to the sixth, squeezed the trigger, and he dropped. “Man, you shoot fast!” Dirk said again. We had two animals down 30 minutes apart! The .375 was talking! I had shot the impala at 175 yards and the blesbok at 200 yards with the scope set at 1.75 power for each. I was sticking with the .375 until I got a kudu.
We went back to camp and relaxed until early evening when we were going out again. With about two hours of hunting light left, we went out into the foothills near the camp after kudu. We crossed a stream and were crawling through brush up the bank where we came upon some ruins of an old farm. There were two 1930s vintage truck hulls rotting away, and a windmill lying on the ground. The brush was very thick with gnarly, woody stems, similar to mountain laurel, but not quite as bad as the laurel in Potter County, PA. We climbed fairly high up the ridge and set up to glass an area below, a valley in front of us, and another ridge beyond us. We didn’t see a kudu, but did watch a group of five impala rams fighting with one another 300 yards below us.
Altogether, the first day’s game sightings also included steenbok, Blesbok, Judsen’s Geese, and Egyptian Geese.
The second day of our safari with Dirk as PH, we headed high into the mountains after kudu. Some kudu choose to live on the plains, some in the foothills, and some high in the mountains like billy-goats. As we started up the mountain we encountered numerous small herds of young kudu bulls and cows, larger herds of red hartebeest with kudus intermingled, and herds of impala and springbok.
Dirk and Baby spotted a large kudu bull with a herd of red hartebeest heading just below the ridgeline of the tallest peaks. We drove in as close as we dared and then closed the rest of the distance on foot. Dirk told me to fill the magazine of the .375, chamber one, and put the scope on 5 or 6 power. The stalk led to a point on the ridgeline giving us pretty good observation in all directions, except the slope directly in front of and below us.
The hartebeest traversed the ridge and were heading across the slope to our front. The kudu bull separated from the hartebeest and was crossing from the right to the left a bit lower behind them. I had a hard time locating him as I was focused on the hartebeest. I finally spotted him and took a careful, well-placed shot while he was trotting and managed to hit him before he disappeared into the heavy cover. I hit him hard and rocked him but he didn’t drop.
The kudu was definitely hurt and not in a hurry to go anywhere. Dirk took a couple of quick shots and connected on one. He told me to keep shooting as we didn’t want to lose him. Dirk shot again and missed. I took a hurried, unsteady shot and missed. I then settled into a good sitting position and took a carefully executed shot, striking the kudu in the neck and out the off shoulder, which knocked him over.
The kudu bull was a nice one, and an old one; he only had one tooth left in his mouth and it was very loose. He was at the end of his life for sure, estimated to be 15 years old! The first shot on was at a trotting target, 270 yards away in a stiff wind. Later that evening before supper, Marius Van Deventer, the oldest living PH in the Eastern Cape, my PH for the remainder of the safari, told me that at that distance on a trotting kudu, I should have held one metre in front of him.
That day’s game sightings added nyala to the list, plus vervet monkeys, mongoose, warthog, bushbuck, and a hawk I couldn’t identify.
Well, one of the main things that I learned in Africa is your eyes and mind need time to calibrate the African scenery. The trees for the most part are much shorter than the trees in a temperate, Pennsylvania forest. The predominant tree species on Mayogi Safari land was wild plum, six to 10 feet high. Trees this height, make distant objects appear very far off, as my mind and eyes are calibrated for trees in the 30 to 100 feet category. It took a while, but I finally dialed in what 200 yards looked like in Africa. I did this with the football field method of comparison.
As we were in the southern hemisphere, about as far south as you could be on African continent, July is the middle of winter. The temperatures for the most part were nightly lows of 45°F and daytime highs of 65°F. One night it got down to just above freezing point! But the weather was very comfortable for outdoor activities with a bonus of not having to worry too much about any snakes.
Together with the people, the place and the ambience, a wonderful hunting experience.
Feb 28, 2017 | News
My Nyala – the sustaining memory
By William Archibald
This time last year, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. There was surgery. Clean margins, they said. Great News.
I’m riding a commuter train into Philadelphia to Jefferson Hospital. It’s a routine follow-up, and I’m hoping for a zero PSA reading. I shouldn’t, but I have more apprehension now than when we were looking for my friend’s wounded buffalo. Cancer scares me a lot.
The train is full. It’s raining and everyone is a little wet. The windows are dirty. We’re passing through Camden. Not exactly a garden spot.
I close my eyes and I’m following PH Roche du Preez through high bushveld, a mixture of thornbush, high yellow grass, and a scattering of trees. The sun is bright and warm on my face.
Roche’s instructions are straightforward and uncomplicated.
“Stay behind me. Get your rifle on the sticks as soon as I put them up. Don’t shoot until I tell you.”
I know the drill. I’ve hunted with Roche before. Up ahead somewhere is a nyala bull. He was a breeder, but you know nyala – they fight and he lost. He has a broken ankle, and now he must be removed.
We move slowly, heads swiveling, eyes searching. Every shadow, every dark spot. Roche moves easily and quietly, but then he’s half my age – same age as my daughter, in fact. I move with him, although not quite as easily nor as quietly. I’m more accustomed to oak leaves and huckleberry brush in New Jersey. He was born to this.
I strive to stay within 2 feet of the shooting sticks – they are presently carried at trail arms. I can look around and ahead for the nyala. I have a pretty good eye for game. I also work on moving quietly. Watching where I walk. Trying not to crunch on sticks, trip over rocks, or walk into a thornbush. We have hunted together enough so that I can read Roche’s body language. His head goes slightly forwards, his shoulders droop, and he crouches a little. He’s on to something.
Now, the sticks are carried at high port. It’s time to really pay attention. I close the distance to within 2 feet of his back. I focus all my attention on staying close and moving quietly. Roche is my eyes and ears now. No need for me to look around – just stay close and stay ready. He moves, I move; he stops, I stop.
The sticks are up. I move, using his body to shield my movement. The .270 goes onto the sticks. The safety comes off as soon as the forearm touches down. I see the nyala for the first time through the scope.
Roche’s left shoulder is behind my right. His head is next to, but a little behind, mine. His binos are parallel to my scope. I know this, but I am unaware of it now.
All my focus, all my concentration is on that little circle of light. I pour myself through the scope. Just me, the crosshairs, and the nyala.
He is standing in the shade of a big tree. Practically invisible, his coat blending in perfectly. Motionless. The light breeze is on my cheek, just to the left of my nose – good. He is slightly left of broadside, excellent position for a shot. About 100 yards – no problem there. But… there is a lot of tall grass between him and me.
I want to hold, just above the joint where his shoulder and body come together, but I can’t. There’s just too much grass in the way. This 130-grain bullet isn’t going to buck much brush.
The crosshairs settle higher on his shoulder. I should catch lungs and spine. That should do it. I’m steady. I check the scope for parallax. The bull stands motionless. I’m waiting for the word from Roche. It seems like a long time, but it isn’t really. I hear him say, “Take him.”
I begin to squeeze. I’m totally unaware of the sound of the shot. I’m barely aware of the recoil, but as the image through the scope begins to distort, several things happen in the blink of an eye.
Halfway to the nyala, I see a grass-top flick sideways. I hear the bullet strike with a flat slap. I see the bull drop like a cinderblock.
Habit takes over. As I lift the rifle off the sticks I bolt a fresh round. The safety comes on without conscious effort. I stoop and retrieve the spent brass and shove it into my back pocket.
We are moving. The sticks are back to trail arms. The grass is chest-deep in places. We move at an oblique angle to approach the nyala from a safe direction – my rifle is at high port in case another shot is necessary. But it isn’t.
I look down at the magnificent nyala bull. Life has left him. There are no high fives, no hooting, no hollering, no laughter. This is a solemn occasion. I have killed this beautiful animal. I console myself with the knowledge that his memory will live with me for the rest of my life. His glorious shoulder mount will hold a place of honor in my home. I will look at him every day and remember him. A fitting epitaph for this magnificent nyala bull. Far better than a banquet for hyenas and buzzards.
It’s a two-week safari and there are other memories to be made. For now, I am content. If I had to fly home tomorrow, it would be enough. Thankfully, I don’t. There will be a red hartebeest, a blue wildebeest, a springbok, and a kudu. Each has his own story. Each will make his own memories for me. Each will hold a place in my heart.
The train jolts to a stop. Market Street. Next stop is mine. A two-block walk, and I’ll get the word. Good or bad. Africa, South Africa, Roche, and the nyala have filled my mind and my time. The memory has eased the difficult trip. That alone is a fitting memorial to that fine bull.
There are some very dark places in my life. Yours, too, I’ll bet. At my age, there are bound to be many more. That’s life. That’s getting old. I accept that.
I’ll always have that high yellow grass, the thorn bush, a scattering of trees, the sun on my face, and that big beautiful nyala bull.
I don’t even have to close my eyes to see it all. You see, there’s more to a safari than just a dead animal. His life and death have added so much to my life. So much more.
There is a lesson here for all. Don’t wait. If you want to do something – anything, DO IT. Age, illness, or luck may intervene at any time. Take the first step. The second step will follow, then the third, and others. You don’t want to be lying there, looking up, breathing your last and thinking, “Damn! I wish I had ________!”
I’m going back. Sooner than anyone expected, myself included. Life is too short. Don’t deny yourself your passion. Besides, there is a big, old eland with a bad attitude making trouble on Roche’s ranch, and I mean to put a stop to that.
I hunt with Roche Safaris of Swartruggens, South Africa. My rifle is a Remington 700 in .270 Win. I use Barnes VOR-TX ammunition 130 grains. My rifle scope is a Leupold VX3 3.5x10x40mm. My binos are Bushnell NatureView 10×42.
Oh, yes. My PSA was 0.
William has been hunting for 56 years – moose in Maine, caribou in Quebec, mule deer and antelope in Montana, and whitetails from Maine to North Carolina and most states in between.
His first safari was a retirement gift from his wife in 2011, a second in 2015, a third in 2016.
Next safari is scheduled for April 2017 and he will be taking his daughter and seven-year-old granddaughter.
My magnificent nyala bull scored 74 on Safari Club International scale. Note his left hind leg broken at the ankle.
Feb 28, 2017 | News
Zimbabwe: 2015
THE LAST OF THE BEST
Kyle Ball MD
It couldn’t have been a more perfect setup: 10.35 a.m. Mid-July. Zimbabwe’s famed Zambezi Valley. Hurungwe Hunting Block.
Already that morning we had spotted, approached and passed on three other elephant bulls, but now we had before us – at only 16 yards – the bull that I had traveled over 12,000 miles to hunt, and that I had waited a lifetime to find.
The wind was steady in our faces as we made our final approach. The elephant was standing with his entire left side exposed as he fed quartering away from us in a thicket of jesse bush, so characteristic of the Zambezi Valley.
Safari outfitter and professional hunter Gordon Mace of GEM Safaris was just off my left shoulder, holding his Brno .505 Gibbs in the ready port arms position. Without taking his eyes from the bull, he slowly smiled, and with his index finger pointed to his eyes and then to his heart.
This maneuver could only make me smile. These hand signals had been reviewed countless times before as we had made similar approaches on other dangerous game that had led up to this finale. No words were exchanged, no chance of a voice spooking our quarry. Gordon was “old school” in all conduct relating to a safari, but never more so than in this regard. Its meaning was simple and direct:
“Eyes on target – bullet through the heart.”
That sounds simple enough. The heart/lung region of a Zambezi Valley elephant bull is huge, at least 4 x 4 feet square. Place a 400-grain Trophy Bonded Sledgehammer solid from my .416 Remington Magnum into that square, and death was assured, albeit after a several hundred yard “death sprint”.
But I envisioned a side brain shot, the classic kill shot, instantaneous. The bull’s massive head and trunk will fly upwards as its huge hind legs collapse under it. Gordon and I had discussed this many times over our nightly mopane fire, situated in our camp along the banks of the Zambezi River.
“The side brain shot is awesome and must be dead-centered to be effective,” he said, “but it allows no margin for error, because the elephant’s brain is very small relative to its body size and is encased in a labyrinth of spongy bone. A poor shot will only momentarily stun it. It will take off at great speed and will certainly ‘ramp the horizon’- unrecoverable, taking along with it your hopes and dreams and your very expensive trophy fee!
“Because it possesses such a huge margin for error, that’s why the side brain shot is reserved for professionals, and the heart/lung shot is left for amateur safari hunters.” I asked how he knew so much about the subject.
“In my younger Rhodesian days, I was part of a PAC (Problem Animal Control) unit. We had to deal with all types of game, but primarily dangerous game that was encroaching on villages or crops throughout the country. Over those years, I accounted for many elephants as well as Cape buffalo and hippos. It was dangerous and trying. You had to quickly master brain shots from any conceivable angle, and you learned quickly the exact location of the brain, for to miss it meant a long follow-up or a lost animal.”
As I looked at the trophy bull in front of me, I glanced at Gordon, and with my index finger pointed to my eyes and then to my temple. Side brain shot – that’s what I want!
Gordon grinned but firmly pointed to his eyes and then to his heart: EYES FORWARD ON TARGET – HEART/LUNG SHOT! As our eyes met in that instant, I could read his mind – this was not a suggestion. This was a command!
Engage the target—don’t muck this up!
As my .416 Remington Magnum came to my shoulder, peripherally I could see Gordon’s .505 Gibbs also being brought to bear. As the heavy duplex reticle of my Leupold 1.5 x 5 Dangerous game scope found its mark, what little trigger slack remained was taken up by my trigger finger.
“BOOM!” My Sledgehammer solid exploded from the end of the barrel and instantly hit the target, one-third up and slightly behind the elephant’s left front leg. It reacted instantly to the shot, stumbling slightly at first but quickly recovering and accelerating away from us, along the path it had been facing. Quickly chambering another round, I aimed for a high spine shot as the bull was quickly gaining both speed and distance.
The second shot impacted just to the left of the massive spine, but the only visible reaction from the bull was to alter its course suddenly, turning sharply to its left, exposing that side of its massive head and body, now 90 yards away. As I chambered my third round, I heard the deafening roar of Gordon’s .505 Gibbs immediately to my left and was amazed to see the bull’s head and trunk fly straight up as its back end collapsed.
For a few seconds I stood there motionless. Gordon rocked me back into reality with a hard slap on the shoulder.
“Kyle, follow me quickly. Reload your weapon NOW!”
I reloaded as we ran, following Gordon around the dense jesse bushes. We were circling downwind and coming up behind the fallen monarch, to give the finishing shot.
“Here, Kyle, here!” Gordon pointed. “In the back of the skull. Do it now!” As my third bullet found its mark, the bull of my lifetime lay silent.
At that moment, the world seemed to stand still. It was that surreal. For me, what had only seconds before been controlled chaos was now deathly silence. I was now finally able to lay my hands on this elephant bull – OUR elephant bull. As I stood silently, Gordon and the trackers moved off slightly to one side to give me some space as the realization of exactly what I had done – what we had done together as a team – began to sink into me.
This bull elephant – so majestic – so old – that had seen countless sunrises and sunsets with possibly thousands of other elephants in its lifetime, and had passed his genes on to many progeny – lay still in death at my feet.
After several minutes, Gordon came alongside me and hugged me tightly. “Kyle, it is such a privilege for me to be able to share this priceless moment with you. He is a superb trophy. He should only belong to a superb hunter such as yourself. Hunted ethically in a free-range environment, taken quickly and cleanly with the utmost respect.”
As I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, I could only nod in silent agreement.
Bio???
TO GO IN A BLOCK:
This, and other adventures, were shared with and guided by one of the “Last of the Best” professional hunters on the Dark Continent – my friend and mentor Gordon Mace. I am blessed to have seen Africa through his eyes and to have felt Africa through his heart and soul.
So many American hunters, pushed by the times in which we live, have the mantra, “Maximum animals in minimum time,” animals that meet SCI minimums for inclusion in the Record Book and other such drivel – a sharp contrast to Gordon’s mentality. A safari is truly a journey to him, not just what animals are taken. It is everything – the sights, sounds and total experience.
Reared in the “old school” Rhodesian (now Zimbabwe) manner, to him a safari consists of an outstanding camp with a well-trained and competent staff in true, fair-chase big-game safari country. The Zambezi Valley is an example of such a destination and has been Gordon’s favorite since he was a 19-year-old, freshly minted officer in the Rhodesian army. Initially posted to Chirundu on the Zambian border deep in the Zambezi Valley, this hunting paradise quickly captured the soul of this aspiring young hunter, and immediately on arrival Gordon bought his first rifle, a Cogswell and Harrison .318.
His initial forays into the surrounding bush were all on foot, and as he explored – sometimes for weeks on end – his range expanded dramatically as he survived by his wits, his increasing proficiency with his firearms, and more than his fair share of luck.
From these initial experiences in the untamed land, a personal code of conduct began to take root and, with time, became a set of standards that formed the core of a way of life that was to carry him and his family through the next 50 years.
There was always an air of confidence among the trackers under Gordon’s direction, a confidence that allowed you, the safari client, when the stalk had been closed with the animal and the trackers blended silently behind you and Gordon, to step up boldly and “engage the target.”
That confidence couldn’t make you arrogant or foolhardy because you knew that if things went awry in dangerous-game encounters, collaboration would be instantaneous and deadly. That assurance is absolutely priceless.
To hunt with a man of Gordon Mace’s character, you became a student. If you were stupid enough to arrive in Africa with preconceived ideas of “how” or “why” Africa was the way it was, you would miss one of the richest of treasures – the opportunity to see, hear, feel Africa through the eyes, heart and soul of one of its finest historians, entomologists, herpetologists and professional hunters.
Lessons of the bush, many times written in blood, are so easily transferred into everyday lessons of life. Having been fortunate to have hunted on five continents over the past 30 years with countless professional hunters, to have kept returning time after time to share safaris with Gordon, meant that his impact, at least for me, transcends time.
Feb 28, 2017 | News
Zimbabwe: 2011 – 2012
The “Leopard Magnet”
By Richard Brebner
Within 10 days we had three leopard sightings in broad daylight. I had never experienced anything like this, as normally in an area where they are hunted, the big cats are far more secretive and you seldom see them.
“You definitely have your leopard magnet activated to full strength!” I joked to Wade.
August, 2011, in the Beit Bridge area of Zimbabwe, I was hunting with Wade and Cindy Williamson from Parshall, North Dakota. Wade’s son, Matt was hunting with another PH, Terry Anders. Wade was after buffalo and elephant, Cindy was hunting a nyala, and Matt was looking for buffalo and leopard. After collecting a good buffalo and Cindy’s nyala, our focus turned to elephant.
Wade was also anxious to hunt a hyena. As luck would have it, we were cruising along the Limpopo when we saw vultures dropping out of the sky onto a sandstone ridge. My binoculars revealed a hyena skulking among the rocks. I stopped the vehicle and we began a circuitous approach, crabbing our way up the ridge, hoping to catch the hyenas unaware. We found the carcass of a young eland near the top of the ridge, but there was no sign of the hyenas that had obviously heard us coming. Closer inspection of the carcass revealed that a leopard had killed it, and the hyenas were part of the clean-up crew. Looking above the carcass, my tracker Moffat spotted movement, and there, at 9 o’clock in the morning, was a huge tom leopard glaring balefully down at us. Before we could get a good look at him he melted away over the crest. I was sure that he would have run or disappeared into the broken rocks, but we pressed forward to see if we could get another look at him.
To my astonishment he had only gone a few metres and was now above us, silhouetted against the skyline, looking back and down at us. Time stood still as we admired this lithe feline that was giving us ample opportunity to take a shot. This definitely was Murphy’s Law as we were not looking for a leopard and there was only one available tag. The tom stood there for an eternity before moving unhurriedly away. Had we been hunting leopard, this sort of scenario would never have unfolded. On the way back to the vehicle we saw a female leopard on the cliff face, also at the eland.
It was only when we got back to the vehicle that I had a brainstorm and ruefully said to Wade that we should have taken the cat. After all, it was his son in the other party and I’m sure that we could have switched tags, and Matt could have hunted the elephant. However, it was no use crying over spilt milk, and we admitted that it was still an amazing experience seeing two leopards in the space of about thirty minutes in broad daylight.
Our elephant quest continued, and the hunt was drawing to a close. Matt and Terry managed to bag a good tom but we were unable to find a big enough elephant. Wade promptly booked a 2012 hunt for elephant and leopard – we were determined to try to renew our acquaintance with our arrogant cliff-top adversary who had stared at us with such intensity seven days previously. Wade certainly seemed to attract leopard and I was keen to see if his “magnet” worked as well when we were actually trying to hunt one.
Fast forward to 2012. I picked up Wade and Cindy from Bulawayo, and of course the banter and discussion turned to leopard magnets and sightings on the four-hour journey to the Sentinel camp. I had just completed a leopard hunt where my client had gone home without his cat. We had had a huge tom feeding, but it was chased out of the blind by elephants at the crucial moment and we never got another chance. By the look of his track this was a monster leopard and would definitely be first prize for Wade. My last client had had miserable luck and came tantalizingly close, but an alliance between pachyderm and feline had robbed us.
“Maybe your leopard magnet will work this time,” I remarked hopefully to Wade.
At the time of the hunt Sentinel was experiencing a horrific drought and it would be difficult to get a leopard on bait – the weakened condition of the prey species like impala was carnivore heaven, and meals were easy to come by. Anyway, I got Wade to shoot a zebra on the opening day of the hunt. I have always had good luck with zebra baits, and it would be something different from the now emaciated impala that the leopard were having no difficulty in knocking over. We placed our first bait in the same tree that the big tom had been feeding on the previous hunt. It was at a small spring only a couple of hundred metres from the workers’ village. Three other baits were put in favorite locations, and as the days unfolded we supplemented the zebra meat with impala.
We did not have long to wait. We checked first the bait near the village which was close to camp, and to my amazement I saw a zebra leg lying along the branch and the telltale tracks of a huge tom under the bait. He had obviously fed early that morning as there was little disturbance over his tracks. We immediately left, as I was worried the tom was still in the vicinity and might be lying up near the bait. It was a huge, solitary cat, and I had a score to settle with him. It seemed as though Wade had lost none of his powers of leopard attraction from the previous year!
I could scarcely contain my excitement, and although the next bait had been hit by a good-sized tom and a female, I paid it scant attention.
We returned to the number one bait at mid-morning. I hoped that we had given the cat ample time to move away and that he was now sleeping off the effects of his previous evening’s meal as big cats are wont to do. I debated whether to leave the leopard for a night and try for him the following evening. However, Moffat and I decided to strike while the iron was hot. We found an excellent blind site – there was a small Shepherd’s tree Boscia albitrunca, near the front of the blind with a conveniently placed “V” which was just at the right height to make a solid and reliable rifle rest. I was a little concerned, as the 80-yard distance to the bait was further than I normally like, but Wade was confident that he could make the shot, even at night under a light.
In no time the blind was prepared. The set-up looked perfect and I gave my overhead light one last test to make sure that all was in order. On the way back to camp I fervently hoped that the elephants would not interrupt our hunt. Because of the drought, this was an ever-present hazard – water was scarce, and there were many elephant drinking from our waterhole.
Five o’clock saw us back at the blind and the long vigil began. The noises and voices from the village were clearly audible in the still evening air as people went about their business. Wade was immobile and silent in his chair, and Moffat and I were stretched out on the floor of the blind. Eventually, the noise from the village subsided. There were occasional visits to the waterhole by zebra and eland, their clicking hooves making distinct sounds as they slipped over the smooth pebbles to get to the water. We remained undetected in our ambush position, and a gentle breeze stole in through the front of the blind. So far, the elephants were keeping away – long may it last, I fervently hoped.
At around 10 p.m. my senses were aroused to fever pitch when I heard the unmistakable sawing cough of a territorial male from quite a distance to the right of the blind. I tapped Wade’s shoulder.
“Absolute silence now,” I whispered. The boredom and discomfort of the wait were instantly forgotten. Time passed, and then we heard our tom sawing again – he was definitely closer. Then there was nothing. Automatically doubts began to assail me. Was this rascal merely patrolling his territory? And would he pass us by? No sooner had these thoughts entered my head when our attention was riveted by the zebras’ alarm snorts coming from the left of the blind. I was sure our cat was now at the water, or maybe lying underneath the bait tree. The zebra were not happy about something, and continued their blowing and snorting. The wind remained steady, and I was sure that they could smell leopard near the water.
At precisely 11.15 p.m. we heard the unmistakable scratching sound of the cat getting into the tree. Then we heard him begin to work on the bait. In his excitement, Wade grabbed my ankle repeatedly. I reassured him with a squeeze of the shoulder. I wanted to let our tom get well and truly engrossed in his banquet before we assumed our final positions. The bone cracking continued to break the stillness of the evening. Eventually I signaled to Wade to get ready.
I slowly raised myself to the level of my port in the front of the blind and activated the red light over the bait. It was a sight that always thrilled me, no matter how many times I see it. The tom was huge and was quartering on to us, lying down while he savaged the remains of the zebra leg. I increased the intensity of the light, hoping the cat would stand up and give us a broadside shot. In my pre-hunt briefing I had already stressed to Wade the need for a clear and uncomplicated shot. Time passed, and the leopard did not change his position. Eventually he moved forward slightly, but was still crouched over the bait. I was enthralled by the sight but at the same time knew that this would not last forever. I had seen on too many occasions how suddenly and fluidly a cat can melt away from the bait. Wade’s fervent whisper entered my subconscious: “I can see his shoulder.”
“If you’re sure of the shot, take him,” and I slowly raised my fingers to my ears.
The quiet of the evening was shattered by the roar of the .375 Ruger, and then there was an audible thump. I maintained absolute quiet as we strained our ears to pick up any noise from the bottom of the branch which was not visible to us from the blind. Nothing. I radioed for the vehicle which was waiting only a stone’s throw away at the village. I was sure that the cat was dead, but was taking no chances.
We moved cautiously towards the tree, my shotgun traversing the area leading up to the bait tree, ready for instant use. Moffat carried my .416 and Wade his .375. Our fears and caution were unfounded. As our torch beam illuminated the ground beneath the tree – there he was, stone dead, an absolutely magnificent creature. I was mesmerized as I reverently ran my hands over his beautiful pelt.
Wade’s “leopard magnet” had won the day. He had taken a fabulous tom on his first night in the blind, on the third day of the hunt. Unfortunately we were not able to weigh him, but he was one of the biggest, if not THE biggest cat I had ever taken. None of us, not even big strong Philemon, the number-two tracker, could lift the dead weight cleanly off the ground. Once lifted I was scarcely able to hold him aloft. He was a tad over 7ft in length and had a green skull measurement of 16 10 /16ths. Taking that amazing tom was a highlight of my hunting career, and both Wade and I definitely got the proverbial “cherry on the cake,” taking him so early in the hunt! We added the “cream and jam” on Day 14 when Wade took a very nice, evenly matched 40lb a side elephant, which just goes to show that when the hunting gods shine on you, and luck comes your way, grip it with both hands, enjoy it to the maximum.
It does not happen very often!
Feb 28, 2017 | News
Client surname is Aman. This means: Peaceful place.
Aman Leopard?
2:30. The alarm startled me out of the few hours of slumber I allowed myself. Nights were short during summer hunting. 30 minutes to prepare and then leave for the blind. 3:00 the cruisers L.E.D. headlights lit the winding red sand road ahead. A half hour drive to the national park boundary. Another half hour to the seemingly insignificant piece of toilet paper hanging on the side of the road. The place where we were to leave the vehicle more than a mile from the blind and bait site.
To say to fill this annual single Leopard tag of Waterberg National Park in 2016 was easy would be lying outright. This was our third attempt. The previous two hunters had both too little time and were way too noisy in the blind to fool one of Africa’s premier predators into our set up. Recovering from a lung infection and allergies being the problem on the first two hunts – and as said before not enough time allowed for the hunt. With Leopard you need time.
I met Bob Aman in 2013 at the Heym factory situated in Gleichamberg east of Frankfurt, Germany. We were invited to a special weekend shoot at the factory to try out these finely built rifles. I had a break over a weekend between safaris and jumped on a plane to attend this prestigious event. I met many interesting people – all shooters, many hunters – but Bob was particularly interesting. Having lived all over the world working for Boeing and spending every spare minute he had in pursuit of his primary passion – hunting. It was a special trip for me. My first Heym double rifle had just been completed and I was to shoot with it for the first time.
It took Bob three years to secure a cattle-killing Leopard in Zimbabwe – self guided – the way most of his hunts were conducted in his 30-year hunting career in Africa while working for Boeing. He saw the late season tag that was on offer on our monthly Safari Journal and booked within a week of our renewed correspondence – the last two weeks of hunting season.
We now had a crack team assembled. Pre-baiting was done well in advance with a combination of Warthog and Beef. The pre-baiting the team was rewarded with a hit. 10 to 12 November 2016 – a very big Tom Leopard had just about eaten a whole Warthog over this period. His first appearance was at 22:00 and the day after he fed through the early hours until broad daylight leaving the bait well after 8:00 in the morning. Jacques and his team set about building the blind 86 meters from the bait which was sky-lined on a perfect tree.
13 November 2016. Fetching Bob at the international airport my iPhone was quickly produced to show the images sent to me – we have at least one Tom on bait.
14 November 2016. We arrive at Waterberg National Park in central northern Namibia for lunch and then immediately went to sight in the rifle. The rifle is very special to me. It is a .300 Winchester Magnum Heym double rifle topped with a 1.5-6 X 42 Swarovski optic. It is at least 25 years old, beautifully engraved and I inherited this fine rifle from my father that tragically past in 2015. We fired three shots, once with right and left barrels and no adjustment was necessary. We proceeded to find our team that had already been very busy for the last week. After a short discussion with Jacque is was decided that we would not sit that night – but go into the blind set-up ‘blind’ – since I did not know what the set up was. An early evening and even earlier morning was planned. The cat on this bait was a morning eater after all.
Well before first light we were on the road. The plan was for the cruiser to slowly drive down the road where the bait and blind were with the three of us sitting on the tailgate. When we got to the right spot we would slip off the back and walk into the already prepared path to the blind. Being ‘blind’ and not knowing the set up was an unfamiliar feeling – I had to have full trust in my friend and big game PH Jacques, having just completed his Namibian big game qualification.
A tap on the shoulder, we slip of the cruiser that did not slow from its already crawling speed and the soft red Kalahari sand was welcome under our feet. Jacque led, his short stature a distinct advantage since I was able to easily see over the top of his head and scan the bush ahead with the light of the waning moon showed us the clean Rhino path used for the access to the blind. We slid into the pop-up blind silently and got Bob’s rifle on the tripod and settled into the chairs already prepared the day before.
Silent-thought was the only entertainment in anticipation of sunrise – occasionally drifting off into a light slumber. Bob’s hearing was not as good as it used to be having shot hundreds of rounds without hearing protection in his life – so we heard it first. Crunching. Like a horse eating corn? A few heavy steps. Jacques looked at me. “Rhino. Black Rhino!” I silently mouthed. “Sit still” was my silent instruction. With a loud snort – sounding like the snot should have splattered on the back of the blind. Foot stomp, stomp another snort and then a crash of bushes and trees that carried the upset and frustrated mini-tank in a fortunate direction away from our blind. Relieved shaken smiles were exchanged by all in our little blind, thankful that there was not a fourth body to join us in the blind.
There was light just enough to see and peeking out of the blind the bait trees was clearly visible. The set-up was almost perfect. It would have been perfect if the Tom was in the tree. It was not to be this morning.
Using the middle of the day to patrol our other baits that were set and waiting for a strike. There was nothing. Mornings and evenings we sat in wait for ‘our’ Tom to return. Fortunately we had the incredibly scenic Waterberg National Park that is game rich with –Eland, Cape Buffalo, both Black and White Rhino as well as Roan and Sable Antelope. Three of the above being a very real and present danger when walking in and out of the blind in the dark.
After a few days with no success it was becoming more and more overcast – giant cumulonimbus clouds building and towering in the north. Rain was imminent – wonderful in a dry and grateful country like Namibia. The wind however was a problem. Mornings and evenings the wind was being very unpredictable.
The team decided to build another blind and footpath on the far side of the 1st blind, 180 degrees on the other side of the bait. They were aptly named blinds #1 and #2. Blind #2 was 100 meters from the bait tree. What was unique in placing the blind is that there was a dune between the bait tree and the blind. On approach the Leopard would not be able to see the blind at all. Only once the Leopard was calmly in the tree would there be a possibility of seeing the blind – and we would only then be able to the Leopard. If he came. With the unpredictable wind we used the Norwegian weather app called Yr.no. Only with this 21st century technology were we able to accurately be able to predict the wind direction for the morning or evening blind session choosing between our now two blinds.
On the other baits there was nothing going on. The Leopard tracks that we usually saw daily had evaporated to everyone’s frustration – and that’s Leopard hunting.
On two further mornings we had company. An ancient Dugga bull moved noisily just 10 feed from the blind, hoof dragging steps at a time, breaking what he moved through plucking grass out with what should have just been his gums at his age. The distinct ‘click’ of the bull Eland’s knee tendon excited the hunter in me – a noise only herd at very close range as they fed past the blind. For the rest of the time we were left with our thoughts staring at a tree so hard sometimes you jumped as your mind started playing games with you. As the light changed spots seemed to appear out of thin air – and with raised binocular they disappeared as quickly as they came.
And hence came the fateful day of the 18th November 2016. With the 2:30 wake up call and the 3:00 departure. Arriving at the toilet paper signal at 4:00 – a full hour earlier than we had been arriving the previous four mornings. The wind was blowing hard and it had rained that night. I somehow had a feeling that today something, or something great, or something terrible would happen before the day got started. My .500 NE Heym double got loaded and swung onto my shoulder. Bob was weapon-less. The scoped and loaded .300 Heym double was waiting for us in the blind on its rest. We would take a brisk walk into the blind, slowing, as we got closer. We could not be seen, only just possibly heard if we took a noisy wrong step. My mind in deep thought with the task at hand. Looking up and to the right in the waned moonlight I saw a huge white animal glowing not 30 feet away. My first instinct was “Rhino!”. I stopped Bob silently and indicated that we needed to back-up. My double came off my shoulder at the ready. Once we had backed up I slowly raised my light-gathering Leica binoculars and looked at the animal. More light gathered by the glass than my naked eyes could see. The form suddenly became clear. The old Bull bull was staring at us with as much interest as we stared at him. Our march continued down the red sand road as did his crashing into the bush.
The vibration made me jump again. The device on my belt indicating that it had ‘paired’ with the motion sensor on the bait tree. This was normal. Its range is about 1000 feet in open country. After the initial buzz, it stopped for a second and then buzzed again. Then it buzzed again. ‘It must be the wind moving the tree’ I reasoned.
Our raked path to blind #2 was wide and clear, marked with toilet paper at intervals preparing for the moon loosing illumination with every passing night. Preparing for the dark walk-ins that would surely be coming in the days ahead – clouds also making the nights darker. We got to the blind and in the cover of the heavy wind. The double on the rest was clamped down and pointed in the right direction. The safety was quietly pushed forward and the waiting game began. The time was now 4:20. Even with my binoculars I could not see anything in the tree – not that we could have done anything at that hour. It is illegal in Namibia to shoot with out sunlight. My buzzer was driving me nuts – so I simply pulled the battery out. The silence was now complete with the sound of the wind moving the leaves around us. I was lulled to sleep. I was woken at 5:45 by an elbow in the ribs by Bob. Opening my eyes I could see Bob had stayed awake the entire hour and 25 minutes waiting for sun-rise. His eyes as big as saucers.
The blind was build so that the hunter could not see the bait tree at all. I picked up my binoculars and slowly lent forward. He was not were I expected him to be. The limb slanted upwards from left to right. I was expecting to see his head on the right – this was not the case. The monstrous Tom was busy feeding on 6 day old beef, having knocked the attached fresh Warthog from the limb and focusing on his breakfast. Sitting backwards I said to Bob that he should lean forwards and look – “HE is there” I whispered with pointed finger. Bob shifted forward to the mounted rifle and took hold, focusing for the first time on his target prey on this trip to Namibia. Positioned in the blind so that I was directly to Bob’s right, just a little behind him with my mouth right at his ear. Bob was set, my binoculars trained on the tree. Bob words bring a smile to my face to this day “Are you sure?” – I am not going to write what I said… The Leopard was calmly feeding away. “Wait. Wait. Wait” as he was tearing away at the spine of Beef. Finally the Leopard was still and with the “Ok” coming out my mouth the set trigger on the .300 erupted and the giant feline jumped / fell off the limb. “That felt good” Bob said – referring to his shot. I quieted him down and said – “we will wait at least 20 minutes before we go to the tree”. I quietly switched on my radio. “Come” was my instruction. Jacques answered a little bewildered “Did you shoot something?”
We learned later that the cruiser was buttoned up tight. Jacques, tracker Gerson and game ranger Thomas all soundly asleep with the windows tightly shut. They had heard nothing. “Warthog” I quietly said into the radio.
I heard grunts at between one and two o’clock from our position. “I can hear him,” I told Bob. In the minutes that passed I was preparing myself of what was to come.
When the rumble of the cruiser was audible I radioed again – “stop and wait at the foot path”. I left Bob in the blind and went to talk to the team.
It was just after 6:00 when we made our slow stalk towards the bait tree down the shooting lane. I led the group with my .500 at the ready, Bob had his now scope-less .300 reloaded and ready and Jacques was carrying my .45 pistol on his belt. All concentration was focused ahead, every shadow inspected, nothing left to chance. We got to the tree. Nothing. Jacques and the Gerson circled and immediately found where the cat had hit the ground. He had fallen and not landed on his feet. A good sign. Jacques and Gerson took the lead – both vertically challenged so I could see over the top of their heads with a clear view. I took up position on the right. Bob was on the left. Slowly we proceeded. Nerves taught with tension. The first rain growth grew knee deep. Plenty for this cat to hide in and pounce from only feet away.
And suddenly – there he lay. Expired. Not less handsome. No longer treacherous. We were elated. 75 yards from the bait tree. A great team had done the job and on day four of fourteen we had gotten it done.
Photos took almost two hours. Every angle taken. It was then time for the very thorough photos taken for the stringent Namibian Ministry of Environment and Tourism permit conditions. It is great to live in a country where we can hunt these magnificent animals – a country where the government has a firm hold on sustainable utilization.
Post script: I would like to congratulate my friend and fellow big game hunter Jacques Strauss on getting his final and upgrade dangerous game license. Thank you for your help on this hunt. You are fast on your way to becoming a legend in this industry
Feb 28, 2017 | News
Stalking the Shadows
By Engee Potgieter
I sat with bated breath, listening to the faint sound of waves breaking on the distant shoreline. As I settled into my chair, my bow beside me, in the dark confines of the blind, I allowed the oppressive humidity and deafening silence of the coastal forest to envelop me. I was back in the picturesque Eastern Cape in search of a trophy blue duiker. Sharing this tranquil scene was my guide Dwayne Ford, who I would be hunting with for the next week.
More than a decade before I had unsuccessfully tried my luck at bowhunting a trophy blue duiker near the small Eastern Cape town of Stutterheim. I had spent seven fruitless days hunting every square inch of valley forest that outfitter Dave Bursey had available, only to catch fleeting glimpses of the deep blue form of blue duikers as they dove into cover. It was during these frustratingly fruitless days where I had learned some valuable lessons about how to hunt – or rather how not to hunt – diminutive forest species like blue duiker. These would serve me well in later years as I went after other pygmy antelope. Little did I know at the time, however, that it would be more than 10 years later before I would be able to return to the Eastern Cape in order to complete my quest for my favourite of antelope, the smallest in Southern Africa, as I have an absolute passion for hunting the many different pygmy antelope, especially forest species like the blue and red duiker. These diminutive species pose, in my humble opinion, the biggest challenge, even more so if you plan on hunting them with bow and arrow.
Pygmy antelope are, without a doubt, some of the wariest and most highly strung of all antelope, and have developed superb senses and lightning-fast reflexes – their only hope of not being made a meal of by a catalogue of predators, such as caracal, jackal, and python. A unique predator, however, is the Marshall Eagle, which often swoops down to catch and kill pygmy antelope and forest duikers. Interestingly, this is also the reason why I have found that hunting from a tree stand in these forests does not work at all, as the ever-wary blue duiker always keeps an eye out for any danger in the trees overhead.
To hunt these vast stretches of thick coastal forest in and around Port Alfred is an experience in its own right, and takes a while to get used to, especially if you are more accustomed to hunting the Zululand bushveld as I am. But when I imagine a blue duiker sanctuary, this is definitely the picture that comes to mind: Thickly overgrown sand dunes under the deep and dappled shade of the almost impenetrable canopy of trees and dense cover among tangles of vines. It is nearly impossible for a man to stand or walk upright – one rather spends most of the time hunkered over, or on hands and knees, peering through binoculars in the hopes of spotting the tiny antelope in the dense foliage. It seldom gives away its presence, if not for the tell-tale flicker of its white bushy tail.
Hunting in this type of terrain by walking through it is simply out of the question. You create way too much noise while trying to get untangled in the claustrophobic forest. It is more conducive to ambush hunting, where the hunter should try and position himself near a dung midden or a well-used trail. Alternatively, you could set up over a general travel corridor, as by nature, these skittish and highly alert little antelope usually move through a high-traffic area at least once a day, generally early morning or late afternoon.
The heavy silence of the coastal forest was surreal, and Dwayne and I were forced to sit absolutely motionless in the stifling humidity of the pop-up blind as the slightest shifting seemed to sound particularly loud. I checked my sight, nocked an arrow and carefully laid the bow across my lap. I had already allocated and cleared a small area directly in front of my chair that would allow me to quietly kneel in the soft, damp sand, draw my bow unseen and make the shot, should a blue duiker ram cross one of my shooting lanes.
Dwayne is the son of outfitter and professional hunter Jeff Ford of Lynx Safaris operating out of Port Alfred, and they have documented the majority of blue duikers across the vast expanse of their 35,000 hectare concession by utilizing a large number of trail cameras set up along a maze of trails and the few small ponds they had specifically built within the home territories of adult breeding pairs. It allows them to carefully monitor and select which old rams are no longer breeding successfully and can therefore be taken out. The past few months of trail cam photos had revealed that a particularly big and old ram and his ewe, depending on the weather and particular moon phase, moved through the corridor where we were anxiously waiting late in the afternoon. So, as the minutes ticked by inside the blind, the tension grew, and we both kept our eyes peeled for any movement in the forest before us.
My heart skipped a beat as, a few minutes after four, the female magically made her appearance, moving slowly, ever so cautiously across the front of the blind from the left to our right. She abruptly froze in her tracks every couple of yards in typical nervous duiker manner. Only the little shake of the fluffy white tail drew our eyes to her form, binoculars revealing her dark, almost iridescent coat.
It was difficult to restrain myself from trying to peer out through the other windows toward the area she had come from in the hopes of spotting the male. We dared not breathe too loudly, let alone budge a muscle in the fear of being heard by the ever-alert ewe standing within a stone’s throw of our blind. It was a treat to be able watch her going about her business, rummaging on the forest floor for something to eat, instantly stopping at the smallest of sounds, from birds fluttering in the trees overhead to rustling of the leaves.
Previously, my experience with these little antelope was watching helplessly as they would dart off through the cover of the forest floor after letting out their sharp warning sound when they spotted a foreign form. So I was delighted to be able to quietly watch this little female. I was still admiring her through my binoculars when Dwayne tapped me gently on my left knee. An immediate surge of adrenalin flooded my system. I knew he was signaling that the ram had arrived, as he had a better view of the left side of our blind, thereby giving me precious seconds to get ready before the ram crossed my window.
As cautiously as I could, I slid down into a kneeling position and clipped on my trusty Scott trigger to the d-loop. I had no sooner done this when the deep-blue, and noticeably smaller-bodied ram came into view. He was surprisingly very relaxed, and casually followed female on the same trail she had used only minutes before. As he stopped and turned away from the blind to nibble at something in the clutter of leaves, I drew back my 80# Elite Answer and firmly anchored. The ram was now facing almost straight away from me, so the moment my tiny green pin came to rest just ahead of the nearest back leg I touched the shot off, sending the arrow toward the unsuspecting ram. A mere split second later the Muzzy-tipped Goldtip arrow impacted with a loud thwack! It passed clean through the ram after severing the spine at the base of the neck, delivering instant death and a dignified end to such a noble little creature.
I was beyond words as sheer elation and utter disbelief washed over me. I had for so long hoped and prayed for this day, I could hardly believe it was all over. Dwayne left the blind and made his way back along our footpath to radio his father as I walked over to where the old ram lay. As I knelt next to him, a mix of emotions flowed through me and I gave thanks to the Creator for the incredible privilege and wonderful opportunity to have been able to take this magnificent little antelope. I don’t recall just how long I sat there, stroking the smooth coat and admiring every detail of the tiny antelope before me. Suddenly, Dwayne’s voice behind me brought my attention back to my surroundings.
It turned out that the ram was one of the oldest blue duikers both Jeff and Dwayne had ever taken with a client. Its teeth were worn down almost to the gum line, and very long, delicately ridged and heavy little horns protruded from the signature tuft of hair on top of his head. We later learned that, not only was I fortunate to have been able to take such an incredible little antelope with bow and arrow, but its longest horn finally measured an incredible 2 ¼”. This was not only truly spectacular for a blue duiker, but it was one of the largest blue duikers ever to have be taken by a hunter with a bow – a rather unexpected bonus and something for which I will be forever be grateful.
BIO
Professional bow hunter and part time outdoor writer, Engee Potgieter, was born and raised in the picturesque Zululand region of South Africa. He had developed a great passion for the outdoors from a very young age and Engee quickly became an accomplished rifle and handgun hunter from very early on, but his first love always been bowhunting and archery. He is also a long time Pro Staffer for Elite, Muzzy, Winners Choice, Gold Tip, Bee Stinger and VaneTec.
BOX
I recommend you choose a bow that is not only superbly quiet, but also very forgiving, as this type of hunting calls for exceptionally accurate shooting. Not only is your shooting lane likely to be obscured with a clutter of branches, leaves, vines and other foliage, but the vital area on these antelope is scarcely larger than a golf ball. It would be a good idea to increase your overall finished arrow weight, as it will help to absorb the energy created by the bow, thus making it quieter. A heavy arrow is far less likely to be bumped off-course should you hit an obstruction.
An ultrafast bow generally has its merits, but it is the actual sound of the bow as it is shot that can make animals “jump the string”. You will never get the arrow to your target before the sound reaches it, so concentrate more on quietening down your setup as opposed to bolstering overall speed. I prefer a good-quality fixed blade broadhead to a mechanical. Models such as the Muzzy Trocar or Muzzy Phantom SC are perfect for lightly-boned small antelope, as these broadheads will enable you to make the shot regardless of the angle at which the antelope is standing. With a large mechanical you run the risk of the blades deploying before it reaches its target if the arrow should come into contact with any bushes or twigs along the shooting lane.
Although it may seem like overkill, I suggest that you shoot the same (albeit high) poundage bow you would otherwise use for much larger game. The reason for using a heavy bow setup is simple, and ties in with the reason for shooting heavier arrows. You will most often have to shoot under, over, past and even through light foliage in order to connect with your tiny trophy, and a “heavy” 70 to 80 pound bow pushing a 500-plus-grain arrow just handles these stumbling blocks better than a lighter, faster setup would, allowing you to confidently take any shot, even if the ram is screened by some plant material.
I cannot over emphasize the importance of being able to draw the bow as inconspicuously as possible, with little to no lateral or horizontal movement, because any hint of danger will send these shy and reclusive antelope scampering for cover. You might not always be afforded the luxury of being able to hunt from the security of a pop-up blind which would allow some degree of movement without the fear of being spotted, so it is better to prepare for the likelihood that you will generally be “still-hunting”, where you will quietly take up a position with your back up against some cover with only your camouflage or “Leafy Suit” to conceal your presence. Lastly, most relatively clear-shot opportunities will likely be in the region of 20 yards or closer, with shots of 30 yards or more being very few and far in between, so I suggest you use a quality 3-pin sight with “wrapped” fibre optic for nice and bright pins, which is perfectly suited to this type of low-light hunting.
PHOTO NO: 1 – Scanning the underbrush in the hopes of spotting Blue Duiker before they are aware of you is par for the course. I would recommend that you use premium quality optics for their optimal light gathering properties in these deeply shaded forests.
PHOTO NO: 2 – The tiny spoor left in the damp coastal sand betrays the presence of a mature Blue Duiker, the 125gr Muzzy MX3 broadhead, which is also a great choice for this type of hunting, is used for scale.
PHOTO NO: 3 – Dwayne and Jeff Ford rely on a number of Trail Cameras set up over small cement waterholes they have built themselves in order to monitor the numbers and quality of their Blue Duiker numbers across the massive 35,000 hectare concession.
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PHOTO NO: 4 – Success! A beautiful, mature Blue Duiker ram, measuring an astounding two and a quarter inches.
PHOTO NO: 5 – The author with the trophy Blue Duiker taken with bow and arrow.
