Jun 22, 2016 | News
Namibia: 2011
Clown Princes of the Veld
By Mick Chapman
“Clown Princes of the veld” – a moniker that so befits the black wildebeest or white-tailed gnu of Africa. Characters with little inhibition, that go about their daily life, prancing over the veld, kicking up their heels, spinning, twisting, pig-rooting, dropping their heads, and charging their companions. In herds from 10 to several hundred, their playful behavior could well be a charade to mask an extremely intelligent and challenging species to hunt.
Since arriving in Namibia, we’d seen innumerable herds of black wildebeest often intermingled with blue wildebeest, hartebeest, or the odd gemsbok. Searching the herds for a trophy male was darn near impossible as these animals could easily be diagnosed as hyperactive. We’d select a bull with trophy potential and begin a stalk. Then, unexpectedly, an individual in the herd would commence a game of tag, impulsively head-butting the nearest animal, turn tail, and run through the veld, causing a domino effect as the sea of gyrating wildebeest flesh went thundering over the plains.
When approaching a herd, if a single beast becomes aware, then all is not well, because you hear a snort, then a high-pitched squeak. A head drops and the whole mob spins into motion, leaving us in their dust. With so many eyes constantly watching for predators, the black wildebeest is a test of skill, which only enhances their appeal to the hunter.
To begin with, though high on my “wish list,” I was not acquainted with how to choose a black wildebeest trophy. So before I hunted them, I asked many questions and wandered around the salt room of PH Drikus Swanepoel’s Ekuja Safari Hunting, studying trophies of successful hunters to find out what appealed to me about these odd-looking creations.
There were specimens with long, smooth horns, or well-rubbed ones with points polished to round stubs typical of older animals. One set had real appeal to me – an oval-shaped boss, rugged, with a heavy, long horn. It was the weight of the boss that drew my attention. Drikus informed me that, like Cape buffalo, the wildebeest horn boss starts out soft, but grows larger and harder as the animal ages. This particular set was exceptional, and my chances of harvesting such a trophy would be slim, though not impossible.
Was I up for the challenge? I quickly let him know I was. Besides, my theory is: If you shoot for the stars and land on the moon, “Ya gotta be a winner.”
On our first day hunting, we were fortunate to see cheetahs feeding on a young gemsbok. Since scavenging is not part of their repertoire, and dining only on fresh kills, these cats are the scourge of Namibian cattle farmer. Being easy prey, cattle often become their meal of choice, and cheetahs are regularly shot on sight. We were driving along an internal property track when we saw them. All hell broke out as Drikus yelled, “Shoot it!” I hadn’t even seen the cat at this stage, but Drikus pointed to where its head projected above the grass. I aimed for where I thought the chest was, and fired, at which two cheetahs bolted across the veld, totally unscathed.
Drikus headed the vehicle into the bush as I hung on, desperately working my rifle’s action to eject the spent cartridge. Closing in on the cheetahs, we were within 20 metres when the driver threw out the anchors and bought us to an abrupt halt. “Shoot, shoot!” I raised my rifle re-chambering a new round, took a lead, and fired, tumbling one cat that regained its feet before both disappeared behind the gawd-awful wait-a-bit scrub. Carefully, we approached the edge of the area that extended about 80 metres in length and at least 50 metres wide.
Willie, the tracker, quickly found blood spoor where we’d last seen the cheetahs. At least one cat had been hit as its tracks lead to the middle of an island of thorn scrub. There was no sign of its partner, until we heard the distant bird-like chirp that cheetahs make. We listened for a reply, but there was none. Walking around the impregnable thicket, we found where the wounded cheetah entered, but no sign of its exit.
Drikus released his dog, Devil, a German hunting dog crossed with an Australian kelpie used for blood trailing. Devil followed the spoor into the thickest section of the scrub, barked, then came out looking extremely sheepish. No amount of encouragement could entice the dog to re-enter the labyrinth of thorns. Convinced we had the cheetah’s whereabouts, what were we going to do next?
We couldn’t walk, crawl, or otherwise into the snarl of thorns. The boys could chop through with axes, but it would probably take days. With the amount of blood visible, we were sure the animal had died. Because I couldn’t bring the trophy home – due to the misinformed Australian government’s blanket policy banning the importation of spotted cat skins or products – we decided to abandon any recovery attempts. We were disappointed no evidence of the experience would be available, and continued with the hunt for wildebeest. We moved around the veld, checking habitat that wildebeest were known to frequent. The now setting sun resembled a fiery red ball suspended on the horizon, splashing the veld with shades of red and purple. We disturbed a mob of eland cows and hartebeest as we advanced to the edge of a vast waterhole, but no wildebeest were seen.
My attention was taken by the beauty of the scene in front of me when, unexpectedly, Drikus signaled Thomas, our driver, to stop. Drikus pointed to a jackal stealing cautiously through the grass painted violet by the hues of the setting sun. Keen to hunt jackal when I was in Zimbabwe, the opportunity never arose, so I was now about to nail one of these lovely little critters. Swinging up the Savage Model 116, I released a 210-grain Barnes TSX into its shoulder; you might say the .338 RUM was a little too much gun.
Five days of my safari had passed with little time and effort on black wildebeest. Finding distractions in gemsbok, eland and hartebeest, we were now ready to devote our undivided attention to securing one of these comical clowns.
We had changed areas to a more open section of the 66,000-acre farm, though there were thick pockets of scrub spattered around the plains that we searched for a lone bull displaying a well-developed boss. But, so far, we’d only found a huge blue wildebeest that tempted me; but, having acquired a lovely specimen in Zimbabwe three years previously, I declined to shoot.
Another African sunset with its vivid colors transformed the sky from brilliant blue to myriad reds and purple. The lengthening shadows inhibited our ability to see through the scrub. Yet, in the distance, we saw a pair of wildebeest bulls on the veld under a gaunt outline of a distant camel thorn tree.
Decamping from the vehicle adjacent to a flimsy camphor bush, we stood and watched the hunting truck disappear. The wildebeest very quickly lost interest in the vehicle and set about playing tag. One head-butted the other, then ran pig-rooting and bouncing sideways while watching its mate. His mate then gained enough pace to catch up and return the butt. This went on for a minute or two, the pair zigzagging back and forth, ‘til they finally came to rest beside the lonely tree where it all began.
Drikus quickly positioned the shooting sticks; I moved up to them and settled in for a shot. Drikus estimated a distance of 200 metres, as I had thought. Instantly, I had a flashback to a similar situation when hunting Australia’s Northern Territory a few years back – a setting sun and pigs at what I thought was 200 metres but was actually closer to 300-plus metres.
With the rangefinder back in the truck, my gut instinct told me to take a high hold. I aimed for the front leg on an imaginary line that ran up the leg to a point that intersected the mane or spine of the wildebeest. Tripping the trigger, releasing another 210-grain bullet, my .338 bucked through recoil. There was a resounding “whomp,” and we watched as the bull hunched up as though mortally wounded, then began to run, then walk to our right. Ejecting the spent cartridge I chambered another, took a lead of the beast, and fired. Rewarded with another “whomp” as copper met flesh, we watched the wildebeest succumb.
Positive we’d both underestimated the distance between us and the now dead animal, I counted paces as we walked out to the wildebeest. It took me 409 paces to reach my trophy; I’m long in the leg and was attempting to take metre strides. I believe that my shot was closer to 400 metres – confirmed somewhat from the point of impact of the first shot, which hit close to the heart from a hold on the back line of the animal – a drop of over 300mms.
Drikus mentioned that many hunters over-estimate the size of black wildebeest and, in turn, underestimate distances. I’d heard about their diminutive size before, but nothing could have prepared me for their lack of body mass when close up. From a distance, I would have sworn they were double their actual size. In fact, they’re about the size of an axis deer, but shorter in the body length. I still haven’t come to terms with their lack of stature.
Thank God for the good old gut feelings, and trusting this instinct. Mick Chapman has hunted extensively throughout Australia, taking five of the six species of Australian deer, water buffalo, and many other species, where he is also involved in the Australian Deer Association. He’s also guided hunters on red deer trophies in his local district. In Canada, he’s taken black bear, bison, whitetail deer and mule deer; in Zimbabwe, he took kudu, eland, blue wildebeest, impala and warthog.
20.3NamibiaBlackWildebeestChapman 1670 words Pull-Out “Drikus mentioned that many hunters over-estimate the size of black wildebeest and, in turn, underestimate distances. I’d heard about their diminutive size before, but nothing could have prepared me for their lack of body mass when close up.”
Jun 22, 2016 | News
By Kim Gattone
South Africa: 2014
It was a calm, cool morning, wet with dew, the low-lying fog quickly evaporating in the rising sun.
These are perfect conditions for scent dogs and, sure enough, the strike dog Blue, was already “giving tongue” from the back of the truck before his feet ever hit the ground!
Blue is an older, three-legged bluetick hound; he’d lost that leg in a close encounter with a bushpig, and is a better dog on three legs than many are on four! Blue, leased to a houndsman, bayed the pigs in their nest. Unfortunately, the pigs “broke their nerve” quickly and scattered rather than holding up.
The first best chance at a bushpig is right there when the dogs strike the nest, but I was not right there, and so the pack was released and the organized chaos was on! This is where the relentless hounds pursue the bushpig until it tires of the flight and turns to fight.
Second-best chance at the a bushpig comes if one is fleet of foot and determined – then one might be able to intercept the fleeing quarry and dispatch them in a clearing as they cross ahead of the dogs. Now this is only possible if the gunner can stay or get ahead of the chase. At this stage of the day, having a middle linebacker from the NFL to break trail through the thorn and brush, running uphill, would come in handy! The third best chance for the gunner – and the one that usually ends the hunt – is to be close enough to the spot the pigs choose fight over flight and “bay up.” This is where the real danger to the dogs is, and time is of the essence.
There is a code of ethics that every bushpig hunter must accept and agree to going into the hunt. Houndsmen have the right to take the pig with their shotgun if the dogs are in danger of getting killed by the vicious pig, whether the hunter has arrived or not. I agree with this code and have great respect for the hounds and the specialized technique that goes into training them.
In another life, not so long ago, I confess to being a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I had a good, long career as a distance runner, and 13 years as a high-altitude mountaineer. My base level of fitness now is not what it was “back in the day,” but it is still above average. I mention this because this hunt was physically and mentally demanding. Crashing nonstop through the thorn and scrub for over two miles at a run with a shotgun, and trying to keep close to the chase so as to not endanger the dogs with an unnecessary delay once the pig was held up, was no simple task. Many a PH has lamented the lack of condition of their clients, at times having to go to great lengths to compensate for it. In this case, if you cannot pursue the chase, you cannot expect to close in in time for the kill, so if you want to run with the “big dogs,” you had better be fit!
Let me back up for a moment. I flew from Joburg to Port Elizabeth over the Indian Ocean, above the white sandy shoreline. I was excited to visit a new province of South Africa and would be spending the next three days with my PH Gary Phillips, owner and operator of Gary Phillips Hunting Safaris. Gary is the sixth generation of a family devoted to wildlife and farming in the Eastern Cape. He has over 20 years’ experience in the hunting industry, with access to over two million acres of private concessions over lush coastal bushveld, semi-arid Karoo, and the mountainous savanna. The noticeably diverse landscape was emerald-green during my visit.
Just an hour’s drive from Port Elizabeth is Gary’s exclusive lodge, Assegai Bush Game Reserve – a lovely five-star camp nestled in the lush coastal bushveld, where I was greeted by camp manager Carla who lavished me with her exquisite meals and warm hospitality for the next three days.
Gary and I intended to hunt both caracal and bushpig with hounds, but after two days’ effort hunting caracal, we never cut scent. On my third day, with the arrival of Paul Mills and his enthusiastic hounds, a change of fate took place. Paul’s hounds are used exclusively for hunting bushpigs.
Bushpig hunting with hounds is an Eastern Cape tradition that has gained legendary status over the years. Bushpigs are one of the hardest trophies to take in South Africa. It is a physically demanding hunt that requires an all-out effort, and certainly is not for the faint-hearted. The pigs are fast and powerful, with upper canines that form small tusks with razor-sharp edges that make them an animal to fear. When cornered they become aggressive beyond description and potentially dangerous.
Charging through the brush we came upon the bayed bushpig, and the only description that comes to mind is complete mayhem: My PH and the houndsman trying to maintain order in a world gone wild, hounds barking and clamoring about, and my quarry, a bushpig almost as exhausted as me, fighting with everything he possessed – for certain he understood that his life depended on it.
The houndsman stepped aside and with no more than 25 feet separating me from the pig, I shouldered the Winchester 12-gauge, shooting twice the 00 buckshot into him. In my book, when shooting something that dangerous, it’s worth shooting twice to finish the fight! A rush of adrenaline coursed through my veins!
Over the last seven years it has been my good fortune to hunt in Africa. I have one of those dream jobs – as the advertising sales manager for the African Hunting Gazette, my job is sweet. I’ve had a number of wonderful safaris hunting plains game species with both rifle and bow. As weapons go, I am most familiar with, and found of, the smoothbore shotgun. Shooting birds over dogs is one of my passions. As for dogs, I love them. So when this opportunity came for me to use both a shotgun and dogs in the Eastern Cape, needless to say, I was pretty excited. This wasn’t birds over pointers with one ounce of #6 shot, but 00 bush shot for a very large and ferocious bushpig surrounded by baying hounds in thick brush!
As quick as I was afoot and with my two shots, the pig had still scored some licks before he succumbed to my shotgun, and several dogs took wounds. Their owner and lifelong houndsman, Paul Mills of Bunker Hill Hounds, turned his truck bed into a surgery center and stitched up four hounds on site. I am a tenderhearted dog lover of the highest order and these gladiators of the canine world won my admiration. They are remarkable in their uncomplaining courageous service facing a formidable and deadly opponent, and they are the heroes of this story, deserving every accolade we can bestow!
The controversy of hunting with hounds will range on long after my story has ended. I understand both sides of the argument. I am a huntress and a conservationist, an animal lover and a meat eater. Whether you agree with hunting with hounds or not, it is a timeless argument. Hunting with hounds is an ancient, efficient, and long-practiced art. For centuries, man and his faithful dog, be it purebred or cur, have hunted multiple species on multiple continents. Wild boar, red stag, African lion, mountain lion, bushpig, bear and wolves; duck, geese, partridge, pheasant and grouse – and on it goes, great and small, all have been successfully brought to bag with the help of our courageous canine companions. So here’s to Blue, the three-legged strike dog, and his pack of baying brothers! Long live the hunt, and long live the hound!
Bio
Kim Gattone makes her home in beautiful southwest Montana and enjoys writing about her adventures to share them with others.
Jun 22, 2016 | News
Namibia: 2014
My Macnam Macnab
By Ken Bailey
There’s something familiar and reassuring about waking to the early-morning call of Cape turtledoves. That three-chord note immediately reminds me that I’m back in Africa. That Africa gets into the blood and stirs your soul is as true and resonant as the Dark Continent’s cooing doves. This was my fourth safari, but my first in Namibia, and I awoke that first morning at Aru Game Lodge’s Kalakwa camp with the same feeling I’d experienced the first time more than 25 years earlier. The excitement of Africa never wanes.
Age brings unwanted baggage, like worn-out body parts, so a more relaxed approach to life is part of the bargain. Although hunting eland was a priority, I wanted to hunt birds – possibly an African Macnab – but I was keen to let the days unfold as fate dictated. On Day 1, my PH, Stephan Joubert, decided we’d climb high that first morning and glass the acacia veld below. Loose rocks made for tricky footing, so the climb was slow but steady. And it wasn’t long before I was reminded that everything in Africa bites.
Whether its football, rugby or hockey, it isn’t until that first hit that you settle down into a more collected rhythm. In Africa, it’s the first trickle of blood from a wait-a-bit thorn biting into my shin that I relaxed into a more suitable pace.
The top of our high hill revealed the diversity of Namibia’s wildlife: red hartebeest, zebra, blue wildebeest, and a gangly group of ostrich. We also picked out impala, tiny steenbok, and always impressive gemsbok. I sat and watched wild Namibia unfold, but Stephan interrupted with the word that makes all hunters, novice and veteran alike, take note – “Kudu!”
From our vantage point we watched the lone bull amble slowly towards a watering hole, feeding as he went. He had one very good horn; the other was broken off not far above his skull. At first I dismissed it – who wants a one-horned kudu? But the more Stephan and I talked about it, and the longer we watched the bull, the more interested I became. It was an older animal, and his intact horn looked pretty good – in the 52” to 54” range. Still recovering from a rabies eruption a few years previously, the local population of kudus was depressed, especially mature bulls that took the brunt of the outbreak. Without committing ourselves, we decided that a closer look was warranted.
An animal easy to spot from above can quickly disappear when you get to ground level. Fortunately, Frederick, an agile and enthusiastic tracker, climbed a nearby windmill to help locate the bull. With a favorable wind, we stalked through the dense camel thorn and black thorn shrub, eventually crawling the last 50 yards.
Watching the old bull, I mentally flipped through my personal criteria for what makes a worthy trophy. A mature animal? Check. Headgear that’s representative or better for the species in the area? Check. A challenging and/or fun stalk? Check. I nodded to Stephan and he quickly set up the sticks. At just under 100 metres and quartered slightly away, the old kudu never knew what hit him.
The signs of his age were apparent. His hair was thin. He had a cataract in one eye. And the tip of his good horn was chipped and broken. Stephan estimated him at 12 or 13 years old – unlikely he was contributing as a breeder. As kudu bulls go, he was a true “Dagga Boy” and, one horn or two, I couldn’t have been happier with my trophy.
That afternoon we resumed our search for eland. I’d long heard about how elusive these magnificent animals can be, and soon learned the lesson first hand. Twice we tried to close the distance on trophy bulls and came up short, betrayed by swirling winds and an eland’s honed-for-survival senses. It’s hard to believe how quickly so many large animals can evaporate into thin air until you see it for yourself.
The next morning, we were back up top early, and Stephan soon spotted a herd of eland bedded in thick brush. Taking our waypoint from a lone Shepherd’s tree, we trekked down the hill and into the thorns. Forty minutes later we were scrunched down among the herd, with bedded and feeding animals as near as 30 metres. We scoured through, around, and under the brushy vegetation, looking for the bull, all but praying aloud that a wayward gust wouldn’t betray our presence.
After nearly 30 minutes Frederick finally identified him bedded some 35 metres away, his body almost completely obscured by shrub and tall grass. From a sitting position I laid my barrel over Stephan’s shoulder at his command, searching for a target I couldn’t discern. At that very moment the wind swirled, and as quick as it takes to say “Damn,” every eland was on its feet and beginning to move. There were twice as many animals as I thought, and to this day I can’t believe we’d slipped in so close to so many.
“Take that one,” counseled Stephan in a whisper. “The one staring right at us?” I asked. “Yes.” In that instant, I fired, aiming for the huge animal’s neck, the only body part visible from where I was seated. Whether I got it wrong, or Stephan did, is still not clear, but when we got to where the eland had dropped in its tracks, we found a long-horned mature cow. We were crestfallen, disappointed in ourselves for making such a mistake.
Later, as we reflected on what had transpired, Stephan accepted full responsibility. “Don’t worry, Ken,” he said, “We’ll go back out tomorrow and look for an eland bull – on us.” I only mused over the generous offer for a few seconds before declining. But it told me a lot about Aru’s integrity. But I’d enjoyed a spectacular hunt that snuck us into the very bedroom of more than 20 eland. How much better could it get? Further, as I owned an equal share of the responsibility for taking the wrong animal, as far as I was concerned we were good. I had my eland and it was time to move on to other game.
I’m an avid bird hunter, and Aru-owner Danene Van Der Westhuyzen had assured me I’d have ample opportunity. Stephan was a perfect fit for my aspirations. Having grown up in England where he’d spent his teen years working at a shooting club, he was a keen smoothbore hunter. We’d steal away early in the morning or a couple of hours before dark, or both, in pursuit of birds. The upland bird populations in Namibia are as diverse and abundant as the large game, and we took full advantage of the three species of doves and two of sandgrouse common to the area.
A typical morning would see us positioned near one of the many watering Namibia: 2014 My Macnam Macnab By Ken Bailey
There’s something familiar and reassuring about waking to the early-morning call of Cape turtledoves. That three-chord note immediately reminds me that I’m back in Africa. That Africa gets into the blood and stirs your soul is as true and resonant as the Dark Continent’s cooing doves. This was my fourth safari, but my first in Namibia, and I awoke that first morning at Aru Game Lodge’s Kalakwa camp with the same feeling I’d experienced the first time more than 25 years earlier. The excitement of Africa never wanes.
Age brings unwanted baggage, like worn-out body parts, so a more relaxed approach to life is part of the bargain. Although hunting eland was a priority, I wanted to hunt birds – possibly an African Macnab – but I was keen to let the days unfold as fate dictated. On Day 1, my PH, Stephan Joubert, decided we’d climb high that first morning and glass the acacia veld below. Loose rocks made for tricky footing, so the climb was slow but steady. And it wasn’t long before I was reminded that everything in Africa bites.
Whether its football, rugby or hockey, it isn’t until that first hit that you settle down into a more collected rhythm. In Africa, it’s the first trickle of blood from a wait-a-bit thorn biting into my shin that I relaxed into a more suitable pace.
The top of our high hill revealed the diversity of Namibia’s wildlife: red hartebeest, zebra, blue wildebeest, and a gangly group of ostrich. We also picked out impala, tiny steenbok, and always impressive gemsbok. I sat and watched wild Namibia unfold, but Stephan interrupted with the word that makes all hunters, novice and veteran alike, take note – “Kudu!”
From our vantage point we watched the lone bull amble slowly towards a watering hole, feeding as he went. He had one very good horn; the other was broken off not far above his skull. At first I dismissed it – who wants a one-horned kudu? But the more Stephan and I talked about it, and the longer we watched the bull, the more interested I became. It was an older animal, and his intact horn looked pretty good – in the 52” to 54” range. Still recovering from a rabies eruption a few years previously, the local population of kudus was depressed, especially mature bulls that took the brunt of the outbreak. Without committing ourselves, we decided that a closer look was warranted.
An animal easy to spot from above can quickly disappear when you get to ground level. Fortunately, Frederick, an agile and enthusiastic tracker, climbed a nearby windmill to help locate the bull. With a favorable wind, we stalked through the dense camel thorn and black thorn shrub, eventually crawling the last 50 yards.
Watching the old bull, I mentally flipped through my personal criteria for what makes a worthy trophy. A mature animal? Check. Headgear that’s representative or better for the species in the area? Check. A challenging and/or fun stalk? Check. I nodded to Stephan and he quickly set up the sticks. At just under 100 metres and quartered slightly away, the old kudu never knew what hit him. The signs of his age were apparent. His hair was thin. He had a cataract in one eye. And the tip of his good horn was chipped and broken. Stephan estimated him at 12 or 13 years old – unlikely he was contributing as a breeder. As kudu bulls go, he was a true “Dagga Boy” and, one horn or two, I couldn’t have been happier with my trophy.
That afternoon we resumed our search for eland. I’d long heard about how elusive these magnificent animals can be, and soon learned the lesson first hand. Twice we tried to close the distance on trophy bulls and came up short, betrayed by swirling winds and an eland’s honed-for-survival senses. It’s hard to believe how quickly so many large animals can evaporate into thin air until you see it for yourself.
The next morning, we were back up top early, and Stephan soon spotted a herd of eland bedded in thick brush. Taking our waypoint from a lone Shepherd’s tree, we trekked down the hill and into the thorns. Forty minutes later we were scrunched down among the herd, with bedded and feeding animals as near as 30 metres. We scoured through, around, and under the brushy vegetation, looking for the bull, all but praying aloud that a wayward gust wouldn’t betray our presence.
After nearly 30 minutes Frederick finally identified him bedded some 35 metres away, his body almost completely obscured by shrub and tall grass. From a sitting position I laid my barrel over Stephan’s shoulder at his command, searching for a target I couldn’t discern. At that very moment the wind swirled, and as quick as it takes to say “Damn,” every eland was on its feet and beginning to move. There were twice as many animals as I thought, and to this day I can’t believe we’d slipped in so close to so many. “Take that one,” counseled Stephan in a whisper. “The one staring right at us?” I asked. “Yes.” In that instant, I fired, aiming for the huge animal’s neck, the only body part visible from where I was seated.
Whether I got it wrong, or Stephan did, is still not clear, but when we got to where the eland had dropped in its tracks, we found a long-horned mature cow. We were crestfallen, disappointed in ourselves for making such a mistake.
Later, as we reflected on what had transpired, Stephan accepted full responsibility. “Don’t worry, Ken,” he said, “We’ll go back out tomorrow and look for an eland bull – on us.” I only mused over the generous offer for a few seconds before declining. But it told me a lot about Aru’s integrity. But I’d enjoyed a spectacular hunt that snuck us into the very bedroom of more than 20 eland. How much better could it get? Further, as I owned an equal share of the responsibility for taking the wrong animal, as far as I was concerned we were good. I had my eland and it was time to move on to other game.
I’m an avid bird hunter, and Aru-owner Danene Van Der Westhuyzen had assured me I’d have ample opportunity. Stephan was a perfect fit for my aspirations. Having grown up in England where he’d spent his teen years working at a shooting club, he was a keen smoothbore hunter. We’d steal away early in the morning or a couple of hours before dark, or both, in pursuit of birds. The upland bird populations in Namibia are as diverse and abundant as the large game, and we took full advantage of the three species of doves and two of sandgrouse common to the area.
A typical morning would see us positioned near one of the many watering holes on both of Aru’s ranches, Kalakwa and Veronica. First the Cape turtle and laughing doves would arrive, then the Namaqua dove that, with their small bodies, relatively long tails and erratic flight, reminded me more of Argentina’s parakeets than of a typical dove. Eventually, both Burchell’s and double-banded sandgrouse would filter in. All demand that a gunner be constantly vigilant, and quick and sure on the trigger, as they swing in to water from every imaginable direction. Between us, we’d take 50 to 70 birds per hunt. While these are not Argentina-like numbers, the birds were equally sporting and the pace of the shooting more enjoyable.
While doves and sandgrouse allowed for stationary shooting, francolin and guineafowl were comparable to upland bird hunting at home. We’d walk abreast through grassy cover, seeking to push small coveys of red-billed francolin into flight. Much like Hungarian partridge, these drab birds would flush in consecutive rises of singles and doubles, typically offering going-away shots.
The helmeted guineafowl reminded me more of turkeys. They have amazing eyesight and scurry away at the slightest hint of any unusual movement. Preferring to run rather than fly to escape danger, we had our best luck setting up small “pushes,” with one gunner hiding in wait along a suspected escape corridor while the other aggressively approached the birds head on, forcing them into flight.
Between bird hunts we’d seek unusual hunting opportunities. I wanted to collect one of the “tiny ten,” and after several unsuccessful stalks on alert steenbok, I took a nice ram. Had I been so inclined, I could have piled up an incredible array of species, but I’ve never been the “whack ‘em and stack ‘em” sort. I got great pleasure identifying the native birds and trees. Aru’s staff places a high priority on ensuring their clients enjoy the full African experience and were more than happy to indulge my interests.
As I neared the end of my stay, it was time to attempt my Macnab, or “Macnam” as they call it in here. Stephan had been planning this so we broke camp very early to ensure we were afield at first light. An African Macnab involves taking a big game animal and a brace of birds, and catching a fish – all in one day. Based loosely upon the antics described in John Buchan’s 1925 novel, John Macnab, it has become increasingly popular in Southern Africa. Central Namibia, however, with its dearth of fish-bearing water, is not a typical Macnab destination. But Danene was game to have her team give it a try.
I’d held off on taking a springbok until Macnab day – a natural fit for the exercise. That some 6,000 springbok roam the vast Veronica ranch contributed to the decision, as we’d have to work quickly if we were to be successful.
As luck would have it, Stephan and I walked three kilometres into the wind without seeing a single ram; any other day we’d have bumped hundreds. Then, as we were considering our options, a lone ram stepped out from behind a camel thorn about 125 metres away. I quickly nestled into the sticks and fired a clean miss on what should have been an easy shot. Discouraged, we turned back for the truck, prepared to regroup. Fortunately, mere minutes later we spotted another springbok, and this time the ram collapsed. One down, two to go.
We headed to a waterhole where we hoped to get our birds. I dropped a pair of doves as insurance, but our hearts were set on sandgrouse, so we waited and watched. When the first flight appeared I locked onto the lead bird and folded it cleanly. Then my shooting went cold. Three flocks later, and without another feather to show, I dropped a second bird. We had our brace!
We had a three-hour drive to Hardap Dam on the aptly named Fish River. This water supply reservoir backs up 25 km² of water, the largest of its type in Namibia. It’s home to several warm-water fish species. Our presentation was pretty rudimentary – corn and meal squeezed onto a single hook, suspended below a lead weight, and cast out as far as we could throw.
I had a take within the first 20 minutes and carefully reeled in the two-pound largemouth yellowfish. Just like that, we had our Macnab, perhaps the first of its kind in this part of Namibia. The Macnab would have been a fitting end to my Aru adventure, but with several days left, I enjoyed some cull shooting for springbok, an evening shoot of jackals and springhare, and an afternoon in a tree stand with another hunter, taking photos as she attempted to collect an ostrich with her bow.
For my first visit to Namibia, I can’t imagine a better experience. I appreciated the diversity in my hunting that Aru offered in spades. Those focused on simply “filling their bag” can do well at literally hundreds of lodges across Southern Africa, including Aru. But if you want to immerse yourself in the sounds, sights, and smells of Africa, in addition to the game, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better destination. Now, whenever I hear doves cooing, my first memory will be of Aru adventure.
Ken Bailey is an avid hunter and fly-fisherman from Canada who has pursued sporting opportunities across three continents. A wildlife consultant by trade, he has been writing about his outdoor experiences for more than 25 years. He is currently the Hunting Editor for “Outdoor Canada” magazine. 20.3NamibiaAru 2075 words
holes on both of Aru’s ranches, Kalakwa and Veronica. First the Cape turtle and laughing doves would arrive, then the Namaqua dove that, with their small bodies, relatively long tails and erratic flight, reminded me more of Argentina’s parakeets than of a typical dove. Eventually, both Burchell’s and double-banded sandgrouse would filter in. All demand that a gunner be constantly vigilant, and quick and sure on the trigger, as they swing in to water from every imaginable direction. Between us, we’d take 50 to 70 birds per hunt. While these are not Argentina-like numbers, the birds were equally sporting and the pace of the shooting more enjoyable.
While doves and sandgrouse allowed for stationary shooting, francolin and guineafowl were comparable to upland bird hunting at home. We’d walk abreast through grassy cover, seeking to push small coveys of red-billed francolin into flight. Much like Hungarian partridge, these drab birds would flush in consecutive rises of singles and doubles, typically offering going-away shots.
The helmeted guineafowl reminded me more of turkeys. They have amazing eyesight and scurry away at the slightest hint of any unusual movement. Preferring to run rather than fly to escape danger, we had our best luck setting up small “pushes,” with one gunner hiding in wait along a suspected escape corridor while the other aggressively approached the birds head on, forcing them into flight.
Between bird hunts we’d seek unusual hunting opportunities. I wanted to collect one of the “tiny ten,” and after several unsuccessful stalks on alert steenbok, I took a nice ram. Had I been so inclined, I could have piled up an incredible array of species, but I’ve never been the “whack ‘em and stack ‘em” sort. I got great pleasure identifying the native birds and trees. Aru’s staff places a high priority on ensuring their clients enjoy the full African experience and were more than happy to indulge my interests.
As I neared the end of my stay, it was time to attempt my Macnab, or “Macnam” as they call it in here. Stephan had been planning this so we broke camp very early to ensure we were afield at first light. An African Macnab involves taking a big game animal and a brace of birds, and catching a fish – all in one day. Based loosely upon the antics described in John Buchan’s 1925 novel, John Macnab, it has become increasingly popular in Southern Africa. Central Namibia, however, with its dearth of fish-bearing water, is not a typical Macnab destination. But Danene was game to have her team give it a try.
I’d held off on taking a springbok until Macnab day – a natural fit for the exercise. That some 6,000 springbok roam the vast Veronica ranch contributed to the decision, as we’d have to work quickly if we were to be successful.
As luck would have it, Stephan and I walked three kilometres into the wind without seeing a single ram; any other day we’d have bumped hundreds. Then, as we were considering our options, a lone ram stepped out from behind a camel thorn about 125 metres away. I quickly nestled into the sticks and fired a clean miss on what should have been an easy shot. Discouraged, we turned back for the truck, prepared to regroup. Fortunately, mere minutes later we spotted another springbok, and this time the ram collapsed. One down, two to go.
We headed to a waterhole where we hoped to get our birds. I dropped a pair of doves as insurance, but our hearts were set on sandgrouse, so we waited and watched. When the first flight appeared I locked onto the lead bird and folded it cleanly. Then my shooting went cold. Three flocks later, and without another feather to show, I dropped a second bird. We had our brace!
We had a three-hour drive to Hardap Dam on the aptly named Fish River. This water supply reservoir backs up 25 km² of water, the largest of its type in Namibia. It’s home to several warm-water fish species. Our presentation was pretty rudimentary – corn and meal squeezed onto a single hook, suspended below a lead weight, and cast out as far as we could throw.
I had a take within the first 20 minutes and carefully reeled in the two-pound largemouth yellowfish. Just like that, we had our Macnab, perhaps the first of its kind in this part of Namibia. The Macnab would have been a fitting end to my Aru adventure, but with several days left, I enjoyed some cull shooting for springbok, an evening shoot of jackals and springhare, and an afternoon in a tree stand with another hunter, taking photos as she attempted to collect an ostrich with her bow.
For my first visit to Namibia, I can’t imagine a better experience. I appreciated the diversity in my hunting that Aru offered in spades. Those focused on simply “filling their bag” can do well at literally hundreds of lodges across Southern Africa, including Aru. But if you want to immerse yourself in the sounds, sights, and smells of Africa, in addition to the game, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better destination. Now, whenever I hear doves cooing, my first memory will be of Aru adventure.
Ken Bailey is an avid hunter and fly-fisherman from Canada who has pursued sporting opportunities across three continents. A wildlife consultant by trade, he has been writing about his outdoor experiences for more than 25 years. He is currently the Hunting Editor for “Outdoor Canada” magazine. 20.3NamibiaAru 2075 words
Jun 22, 2016 | News
South Africa: 2014 Zululand Monarch By John Mattera
“All the really big elephants are gone.” How often do we hear that?
My day job is searching for shipwrecks of a bygone era, so I’m accustomed to skeptical forecasts of men who also tell me, “All the great shipwrecks have already been discovered.”
Truth be told, great hunters and explorers share a common attribute, without which you cannot be either: It is vision – the ability to see what life holds for you, past the doubts of all others. This may be my own definition of vision, but it’s better than most.
The time to hunt elephant is now. Like lost shipwrecks, men with vision still find them.
The trek would take us to KwaZulu-Natal, a province about the size of Maine comprising widely varying regions and terrains. The Natal Midlands are rolling hilly plateaus that rise toward the west where two mountainous regions, the Drakensberg and Northern Lebombo Mountains, climb high into the sky. A solid basalt wall rises to almost 10,000 feet and forms a natural barrier with Lesotho, and low ranges of ancient granite run southward from Swaziland. KwaZulu-Natal is also bordered by the Indian Ocean, where lowland subtropical vegetation hugs the coast. The area’s largest river, the Tugela, flows west to east across the center, bisecting the province. Perhaps the wildest region left in South Africa, Zululand is one of the great bastions of untamed spaces where giant elephant can still be found.
The golden age of elephant hunting may be the stuff of legend, but giant bulls were never common in this part of Africa during any era. Still, there may have been more worthy monarchs 100 ago than now, when the roads were less travelled or nonexistent, and hardship and deprivation were common. The “good old days” weren’t always as good as they sound!
There are very few bad days in a hunting camp. After all, it’s where we aspire to be with our innermost thoughts. Then there is elephant camp where, after coffee and a cold breakfast, you’re on the spoor of giants. This is about as good as it gets, for we are hunters.
Three of my favorite professional hunters – Charles Humphries, Randy Wesraadt and Drom Beukes – descended upon Zululand with American hunting client Dave Ratliff, who is in search of his date with destiny. This was not Dave’s first foray into elephant camp. In 2013 he’d spent 19 days looking for that elusive trophy; but Dave is not a hunter to settle. So unfilled tags gave rise to opportunities anew, and that’s where we were: early September, in KwaZulu-Natal, in search of big tuskers. It’s a story worth telling.
Every day on the trail of elephant, I envision my favorite “Far Side” cartoon from the Sunday papers: Two cavemen are in front of a dead woolly mammoth with a spear sticking from his side. One caveman says to the other, “Remember that spot!”
Elephant hunting is really no more complicated than that: Remember the spot to shoot them, so that they die quickly. But first you have to track them, find them, and sneak up on them, closing to within a stone’s throw of a giant who can destroy you with a casual swipe of its trunk.
If the tracker is good, the wind is right, and the cover is not too thick, you may get to “remember that spot,” testing your mettle against this great and worthy trophy to put that bullet where it needs to go.
Dave was carrying a CZ-USA 550 in .458 Lott with an appropriate charge of elephant medicine; it has already graced the pages of AHG as a tried and proven tool, ready for the hunt. The CZ-USA 550 is no stranger to the rifleman; in any of its variations, it has stood the test of time. Combined with a stout, dangerous-game caliber like the .458 Lott, it’s hard-pressed to beat. In fact, four CZ .458 Lott’s rounded out the five rifles in attendance. Randy was outnumbered if not outgunned, choosing his well-used .470 double rifle over the large capacity bolt-gun.
Much of the region we were hunting for the first few days was intermittent heavy brush, with areas of low scrub that had been burned down in the past. Through the sandy ash and dusty soft dirt, the footprints of giants had difficulty hiding from our two trackers.
As the first morning started, PH Charles Humphries led the column out on the spoor of three big bulls, with Dave right behind him. Humphries is a solid young PH, with chiseled good looks and affable boyish charm, vastly more accomplished than his years would attest. I’ve hunted with him in the past and have never been left wanting for knowledge or companionship. Seasoned PHs Wesraadt and Beukes took up the rear of the column.
By mid-afternoon we closed in on a big elephant just as we passed into the thick jesse. Dave and Charles slipped forward from one small tree to another, gaining ground as they went. As they closed in on a very respectable old bull, the PH steadied his binos and judged the trophy. It looked like a solid 50-pounder, but the bull was old, with a sunken head and weathered appearance, worn down by age and life. His skin, once bright grey, had taken on the fade of an old battleship, translucent hues reflecting in the late afternoon sun.
Charles set up the sticks, and Dave laid his CZ .458 Lott across them, snapped off the safety, and fought to catch his breath. A knowledgeable eye understood that the withered frame of the old elephant might exaggerate the size of the ivory, but still he was a grand trophy in anybody’s book. On the flip side of the same coin, this was early afternoon on Day One of a 14-day safari.
But Charles made the call – good judgment or youthful exuberance, only time would tell. “We’re going to let him pass – there is bigger out here!”
The look on Dave’s face said it all: he’d been two pounds down, with a pound of trigger to go on the trophy of a lifetime. The hooded iron post muted against dark earthen grey. It doesn’t get much closer!
The axiom of the realist hunter resounded through Dave’s mind: Don’t pass up on the first day what you would shoot on the last day.
But Charles Humphries is the kind of young man you instinctively trust, even with the dream of a lifetime.
Day One ended bone-tired and mile-worn. In the book of any hunter who’s pursued these behemoths with enthusiasm, elephant hunting goes down as hard work.
If the old adage holds true, that you have to walk a mile for every pound of ivory, we were well on our way after a sizable monster.
A good part of elephant hunting is luck. I also consider luck to be the residual effect of proper preparation. It’s much easier to be lucky when you are in the field doing what you are supposed to be doing.
As hunts go, most days in Africa’s game fields are great; and any day you stalk elephants is truly magnificent. The next six passed with tracking elephants every day, nothing like the first bull, but stalking-worthy elephants nonetheless. The PHs rotated, each taking turns as the stalks began to number into the double digits. Randy with his unflappable patient demeanor, Drom with his cheerful personality that transformed to a calm resolve in an instant as needed, tracking into the heavy vegetation only feet away from giants – and all the while Dave rose to the challenge, stalk after stalk.
There was one undisputable truth: In the short week-plus between the first bull and the last, Dave had garnered a whole bunch of elephant hunting knowledge, one mile at a time.
Just as Day 8 was coming to its midway point, the trackers came across huge tracks deep in the soft muddy sand, worn down at the heels and withered with age. The tracks of a massive bull! Our Zimbabwean tracker was on the trail at a brisk pace, closely followed by Charles, Dave, and the rest of the hunting assemblage.
One hour turned to two, and two to three. The temperature was cool, the hiking as comfortable as one could wish for as we pushed our way forward, when the tracker stopped and froze. Charles was the professional closest to the action, so he dropped down to his hands and knees for a short crawl and a better look.
His questioning gaze turned to one of animation when he realized what he was looking upon, after a glimpse through the coarse brush. We were stalking a giant! He signaled Dave forward, and they closed in on the majestic old bull.
Flashes of muted grey emerged from behind the painted green and brown of the vegetation, then the glint of ivory – big ivory appeared! Checking the wind, the game was on! In order to get a closer look at this old boy’s tusks without being detected, Dave dropped down to the dirt with Charles, and the two low-crawled through the vegetation. It was the test of a hunter – the test of patience and skill.
The bull was a monster, and the hunter and PH stalked closer to within full view. Youthful exuberance had just become seasoned professionalism!
They eased to their feet and Dave raised the CZ to his shoulder and settled into a solid position as Charles whispered into his ear. The old bull was facing straight on with his head up high. Charles wanted Dave to take a side chest shot, but they would have to wait for the bull to turn. After what seemed like an eternity the behemoth rolled to the side and exposed his heart.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” whispered Charles.
Dave was looking for that perfect shot, the shot of a lifetime, so it took the third iteration of the word shoot before he pressed the trigger. The thwap of a shot well connected echoed with authority. As the elephant took the bullet dead in the chest, he wheeled-turned and took off, gaining speed the whole time. Dave worked the bolt on the CZ and placed a second 500-grain projectile at the base of his tail, and the mighty elephant rocked violently. Momentum carried him forward though the heavy brush another 20 yards until he fell.
“Perfect shot!” yelled Charles as they ran through the mopane. We came up on him just the other side of the brush where he had crumpled. Down on all four knees with his head erect, his massive tusks resting on the ground – done, but not finished. Drom pulled Dave around, positioning him for a side brain shot, just behind the earhole to deliver the elephant home. Dave looked through the iron sights of the CZ 550 and pressed the trigger once again. The mighty old bull rocked back to the earth for the last time.
So many hunting days past fueled the passion that this day’s hunt had become – a lifetime in the field. For Dave, this monster bull completed his quest for Africa’s Big Five on maybe the highest note of his long hunting career.
Our professional hunters were all but speechless. There before them was proof positive of a job well done. This old boy would tip the scales on anything they had seen in years. While magnificent, the true trophy of this hunt wasn’t the size of the ivory, it was the legend of the day!
There are no more monster bulls in South Africa?
Leave the men without vision to their own opinions. My stalwart companions and I are elephant hunting!
John Mattera is a regular contributor to “African Hunting Gazette.”
20.3RSAElephantMattera 1950 words
Pull-Out quote “A good part of elephant hunting is luck. I also consider luck to be the residual effect of proper preparation. It’s much easier to be lucky when you are in the field doing what you are supposed to be doing.”
Jun 22, 2016 | News
Namibia: 2012
Biggest Is Not Always Best – An African Lesson
By Donald Roxby
I’ve made a number of African plains-game safaris over the years. After each trip, a short period of satisfaction is followed by a sudden longing to go back.
One evening as I watched a colorful sunset, I started daydreaming about the red sands of Africa and the many friends I’ve made there. I could almost feel the fingers of the Dark Continent reaching out to draw me back. I went inside and asked my wife Denise if she was ready to return. Her answer was immediate – she looked me in the eye and said, “Let’s start planning.”
This time, however, I wanted to take along some other family members and invited my stepson, Levi Hulsey, to come along as his college graduation gift. When I told my daughter Brandy, she decided to give her husband the safari as a wedding anniversary gift, and my son-in-law, Robert Smith, was added to the group. It would be their first safari, and I was sure it would be a great adventure for all.
I spoke with my friend, Johann Veldsman, the owner of Shona Hunting Adventures, and he promised to make the trip very special for Levi and Robert, who were both interested in taking large antelope trophies.
Upon arrival in Windhoek, we were met by apprentice PH Willie Ilse, and traveled to Shona’s Tualuka Safari Lodge, in Kaokoland in the Kunene Region, in north-western Namibia. The beautiful, five-star lodge offers hunting on 16,500 acres of privately owned land on the banks of the non-perennial Huab River.
As promised, Johann and his staff lead Robert and Levi to the gold-medal animals they desired: blue wildebeest, kudu, gemsbok, and a tremendous 14-ich warthog that Johann and Levi worked at for three days. Since I’d previously taken these animals, I focused on black wildebeest, impala and Cape eland. With our trophies in the salt, we all took a break from hunting and found ourselves talking about other hunting possibilities. Johann’s seven-year-old daughter Zoe was listening to the talks with interest.
Zoe is a lovely little girl who quickly wins the hearts of all the hunting clients. She was born in Swakopmund but moved to the family’s hunting camps in Kaokland shortly after her birth. The first time I met Zoe, she was very shy and elusive. But with some effort, we became friends and enjoyed sitting under a tent flap in the afternoons to talk to the birds. She knew them all by name and could mimic their every sound with precision. It was amazing to watch her do this.
Hunting was a big part of Zoe’s life, and her dad took her for small game with her little pink .22 caliber rifle. She was very familiar with safari routine and, without realizing it, was becoming Africa’s youngest PH in training. She’d already become the camp’s unofficial social director. She enjoyed being around the clients and kept them entertained when they were not hunting. She has a bubbly laugh and you could not help but love her.
Since the subject that evening was small game, I pulled Johann aside and suggested we allow Zoe to take Levi on a guided “small-game” hunt for dassies, which is the Afrikaans name for hyrax. There are hundreds of these squirrel-like creatures living in the rocky ridges surrounding Tualuka.
Johann thought it was a great idea, and Levi thought it would be fun. He was happy to help Zoe show off her hunting skills. When we asked Zoe if she’d like to guide a client for pay, she jumped at the chance. That evening Zoe took Levi aside and instructed him on shot placement, using a mounted dassie she’d shot herself.
In the morning she greeted her client and, with Dad in tow, started out on the great dassie hunt. She led Levi to a dry riverbed and pointed out a group of dassies sunning in the rocks. They moved in slowly, trying hard not to spook the wary critters, which always position themselves in a good vantage point high in the rocks. Dassies have keen eyesight, so hunting them can be very challenging.
The range was a little far, and Levi’s first shot with his .17 caliber rifle was a miss. One shot is all you get. At the first sign of danger, the dassies dash for the safety of the many cracks and crevices in the rocks where they hide.
With this group now hidden from view, Zoe led Levi to another kopje where she spotted more dassies. She moved in closer to this group of hyrax, put up the sticks, and pointed out the large male she wanted him to shoot. It all came together. The shot struck home and Zoe congratulated Levi, and then led him up the ridge to find the trophy. She was brimming with pride when they found the dassie dead on the rocks.
After supervising the photo shoot, they walked back to camp to settle the details of the hunt. Levi gave her US$20 for the hunt and a $5 tip for her services. She was all smiles, having successfully completed her first safari.
That little dassie may have been the smallest trophy taken on our hunt, but it is the first memory that comes to mind when I look back upon it. That day is burned into everyone’s mind, and it was a thrill for all of us to take part in what will probably lead to the development of another outstanding Namibian PH.
If you’re hunting Namibia, look up Zoe for a small-game hunt. She would love your business and will leave you with memories that will hang with you forever.
Don Roxby has over 50 years of hunting experience and has hunted extensively in the lower Untied States, Canada, and Alaska. In Africa, he enjoys hunting plains game.
20.3NamibiaDassieRoxby 980 words
Pull-Out “She moved in closer to this group of hyrax, put up the sticks, and pointed out the large male she wanted him to shoot.”
Jun 22, 2016 | News
Zimbabwe: Yesteryear
Bushpigs By Moonlight
By Doctari
My book, “It Shouldn’t Happen,” contains four stories: Being Dumb, Even Dumber, Dumber Still, and Dumbest Yet. This incident also qualifies.
In the early 1980s my wife Catherine and I purchased Halstead, our Zimbabwean farm. With it came a small herd of six very wild and spookish sable antelope. Halstead lies in Mashonaland West, just outside the one-horse town of Karoi (now Chinoyi), and those of you who have ever driven from Harare, Zimbabwe’s capital, to either Lake Kariba or the nearby Zambezi Valley that lies beyond Makuti and Marongora will have passed through it. The area is described as miombo woodland and it is prime agricultural country with reliable rainfall, good soils, and an almost perfect climate.
Sable used to occur in this area naturally, and I made it my mission in life to protect the traumatized few that hid out in a remote and undisturbed area of Halstead farm. I never high-fenced Halstead simply because I couldn’t afford to in the kick-starting years of my farming career, but what I did manage to create, however, through careful management and the employment of three game scouts, was the right environment in which the sable could thrive – and this they did. Without fail their number doubled every two-and-a-half years, and by the time my world was turned on its head by Mugabe’s disastrous land reform program, there were at least 120 of these magnificent antelope on not only Halstead, but neighboring farms as well.
I soon became convinced that Africa’s various wildlife species can in some way communicate with each other, because all of a sudden waterbuck, bushbuck, impala, even warthogs appeared in the wildlife haven I had created, which I referred to as my “game section.” Unfortunately Potamochoerus porcus, the bushpig, also flourished there, and they are the reason for this story.
In the late 1980s and early 1990s, Zimbabwe’s cattle industry was booming. The reason for this was the Lomé Convention – a treaty that granted cattle ranchers access to the lucrative European Economic Union export market. Deboned, vacuum-pack and chilled, Zimbabwean beef hindquarter cuts commanded a premium price on the EEU markets and this translated into good prices. Only the best quality beef was exported and this necessitated the pen finishing of young steers with high-energy, maize-based diets.
Like much of Zimbabwe’s higher rainfall areas, Karoi was also good for growing maize, and I took advantage of this so as to be able to finish for slaughter the offspring of my rapidly expanding beef herd. My cattle thrived on the maize I grew for them, but so did the bushpigs!
It’s amazing the knowledge that could be gathered at the local country club’s pub. One evening after a farmers’ meeting, I complained to Jack Waddle, a grizzled local farmer, about the damage bushpigs were causing to my maize crop. Over a couple of scotches he told me of a “plan” to alleviate my problem. He said he’d done it once and claimed it was “deadly.” Due to being both young and, in those long ago days, foolish (and a few too many beers), I neglected to ask Jack why, if his plan was so “deadly,” it was not more commonly practiced. I also should have asked why he’d only used the plan once, but foolishly I didn’t…
The plan is as brilliant as it is simple. On a full-moon night (because any form of artificial light makes bushpigs very wary and this defeats the object), take a 44-gallon metal oil drum to where the bushpigs are causing havoc, and stand in it while clamping a domestic piglet between your legs. Squeeze the piglet enough to get it squealing nicely and the action will quickly be forthcoming. (Remember, this all took place well before predator-calling gadgets became available.)
To his credit, Jack did offer up a piece of very sound advice – and it was simply this: “Make bloody sure you dig the drum into the ground and fill it with the soil so removed – otherwise the bushpigs will knock it, and you over!”
Thanks to good Scottish Highland genetics and the typical Zimbabwean “three Bs” diet – beef, biltong and beer – I soon realized there wouldn’t be enough room for both myself and a “Babe” in the oil drum, so I prevailed upon the services of my ever-faithful tracker, Special. He was slightly built and just the right size to fit into an oil drum along with Babe.
The plan was subsequently modified to use two oil drums. It just so happened there was, in one of my bushpig-damaged maize lands, an area about half the size of a basketball court that was stony. When preparing it for planting, we just ploughed around the stones; to mark the spot, a nice and big msasa tree had been left to grow there. This made the area easy to find at night, and I soon realized it would make a fine bushpig killing ground.
In the storeroom that secured all my safari equipment were two good, thick-metal oil drums usually used in my operation to heat bathwater during the winter hunting season. They were perfect for my plan, so I had then carried to the open stony area in my maize land. My labor also cut all the grass there nice and short so the all-round visibility would be good.
It took some careful thought as to how best to position the oil drums, because the very last thing I wanted was to inadvertently shoot Special when the action got going. His drum was subsequently positioned behind the msasa tree, the trunk of which was thick enough to offer him good protection. Large stones and some strategically placed branches behind Special’s drum would also force the pigs to only approach from the front. The best position for my drum was a couple of paces off to the side so that I could get a clear, close-range view of any bushpigs that approached Special, but without me being able to see either him or his drum. Holes were dug and the drums duly buried to about a third of their length. Special’s was also wired to the tree for extra support – just as well that this precaution was taken!
My other profession, that of being the local veterinarian, made it easy for me to acquire a suckling-sized, just-ready-for-the-spit, domestic Babe, small enough for Special to carry and to fit into their drum together.
We chose the night for our “attack” carefully – the night after full moon so it would still be dark when we entered the field after sunset but with enough time to prepare ourselves before the moon rose. On a clear autumn night, the bright rising moon would provide enough light to see the end of my shotgun barrel and any bushpigs that Babe’s squeals would attract.
For the occasion. I armed myself with a Mossberg 12-gauge pump-action shotgun. With its magazine plug removed, it could be loaded with six shells. This number, plus one up the spout, would be plenty of very effective firepower, especially when stoked with Special SG buckshot.
To say that the plan worked would be an understatement! Two things really surprised me. The first was the level of noise that comes out of such a small bundle of bacon, ham and pork chops! No doubt, the amplifying effect of the empty metal drum had something to do with it, but WOW, what an ear-splitting racket Babe produced when dear old Special firmly squeezed her abdomen between his knobby knees! The second was the ferocity of several big bushpig sows and the protective boar that soon came running in, in response to Babe’s ear-numbing squeals.
It quickly became obvious why the oil drums were a necessity and why, indeed, they needed to be dug in and secured. In fact, so vicious were the attacks to Special’s drum, they dented it! A large, very angry bushpig is a fearsome creature. By moonlight, when it’s trying to climb into the drum you’re standing in, is something extremely intimidating.
Unless you’ve done it before, shooting at night, even with a shotgun and at close range, is something a lot easier said than done. I shoot a shotgun with both eyes open and at night, even in bright moonlight, the muzzle flash blinds you for a few seconds. In such situations you’re supposed to close your eyes the moment you pull the trigger, and I simply could not force myself to do this. Alternatively, you’re supposed to close your non-aiming eye the moment you pull the trigger, and then close your aiming eye and open the non-aiming one immediately afterwards, so you can still see what’s going on around you while your suddenly night-blinded aiming eye re-adjusts itself. (As a result of the muzzle flash, the pupil of the aiming eye quickly closes. This results in temporary night blindness. A few seconds are needed for it to open up again and for your night-vision to return.)
But unless you’re thoroughly practiced in this art – and an art it really is – because to be able to open and close your eyes alternatively, like a blinking railway-crossing warning sign, takes lots and lots of practice. I wasn’t, and in the heat of all that action I quickly became confused. Every shot I took, and it was many, was with both my eyes open and this repeatedly night-blinded me.
To stand totally night-blind, with screaming pigs all around you, even banging into the drum you’re standing in, is most definitely not for the faint-hearted! In all honesty, it soon became very clear to me why you only do this “plan” once in your life. The action was fast and furious, and I can recall having to recharge the Mossberg’s magazine more than once. However unpleasant the experience might have been, as a population reduction exercise the occasion proved itself to be extremely effective.
Over an almost two-decade period, a lot of which was spent pursuing dangerous game in the Zambezi Valley, I never once had to question Special’s intestinal fortitude. Many was the time we’d together faced tense moments and yet, although he carried only a knife, ash-bag and the shooting sticks, while I was invariably armed with my .505 Gibbs, he never once displayed an ounce of fear. For this, I respect his courage and admire him greatly.
Special’s date with Babe in the drum that night was, I somehow suspect, different. Like myself, he too, was very obviously out of his comfort zone. At the conclusion of it all, at least a dozen bushpigs of different sizes littered the killing field; and despite the fact that he and his family were to gorge themselves on their meat for the next few weeks, Special absolutely refused to even consider doing such a stupid exercise again. I can’t say I blame him. I’d held the shotgun, and even I had been scared spit-less! Like those before me, I also only ever tried this foolish exercise once.
Kevin Robertson, a.k.a. “Doctari,” is the author of the well-known Safari Press published books, “The Perfect Shot,” “Africa’s Most Dangerous,” and “It Shouldn’t Happen.” A Zimbabwe-licensed PH and wildlife veterinarian, Kevin spends many months each year in the mid-Zambezi Valley, and currently lives in Namibia.
20.3ZimbabweBushpigRobertso 1925 words Pull-Out
“Due to being both young and, in those long ago days, foolish (and a few too many beers), I neglected to ask Jack why, if his plan was so “deadly,” it was not more commonly practiced.”
