Feb 28, 2017 | News, Uncategorized
Rusa on Mauritius
By Frank Berbuir
What, you might ask, can one hunt on Mauritius, the “star and key of the Indian ocean”, that lies in the southwest of the Indian Ocean, east of Madagascar, nearly 2,000 km off the African continent?
Some time ago, on a hunting show in Germany, I met Lionel Berthault, the founder, and Nicolas Chauveau the director of Le Chasseur Mauricien. Their booth offered an attractive combination of hunting and holidays on the island of Mauritius. I had always associated Mauritius as a tropical paradise and vacation destination with white sand beaches and palm trees. It never crossed my mind that there might be a hunting opportunity on this Indian Ocean paradise out of a 5-star golf resort and spa. It sounded very interesting indeed, so I got acquainted with the gentlemen.(www.lechasseurmauricien.com)
I am addicted to bowhunting in southern Africa, that is for sure, but I have to admit that I was captivated to be and hunt on this beautiful island. There’s an old and important tradition there of hunting the rusa deer (Cervus timorensis rusa rusa) that were first imported from Java by the Dutch Colonial Power in 1639. You can also hunt Indonesian wild boar, Japanese hare, guinea fowl, pheasant, francolin and, if you want, peacock.
A male rusa deer is a bit scraggy but nevertheless a gracious stag with heavy, six-point antlers.
During the rut, which starts at the beginning of July and lasts roughly two months, they sometimes “decorate” their antlers with tufts of grass, branches and leaves. In 2010 we were there during the rut, and I collected two gold-medal rusa and a pheasant with bow and arrow. We returned in 2013 in the beginning of November when it is nice and warm and I was lucky again to shoot an old rusa stag. End of October 2016 we made it back to Mauritius – this time I wanted to hunt on an abnormal or “non-typical” rusa stag and an Indonesian wild boar that I did not get previously.
Our 11-hour flight from Frankfurt took us overnight to Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport where Lionel was waiting for us early in the morning. The sun was shining and it was comfortable 24°Celsius. The hour’s drive through small villages and large sugar cane fields, with the Indian Ocean to our left and interesting mountain scenery to our right, led us to our resort, the five-star Heritage Le Telfair Golf & Spa Resort in Bel Ombre, (www.heritageresorts.mu) a beautiful property right on the Indian Ocean with a private magnificent beach.
We spent the first day settling in and relaxing. The following noon Lionel, a certified professional hunter and bowhunter, picked me up and we drove about forty minutes to one of the three huge hunting grounds. As I mentioned, I wished to hunt an abnormal stag this time. Abnormal or non-typical would be less or more than six-point antlers. Less than six points are more easily found than more than six-point antlers, and I wanted to hunt one with more than six-points, which made it even more challenging.
Upon arrival at the beautiful hunting lodge we enjoyed a Mauritian coffee and discussed our hunt. We checked my bow and equipment and took some practice shots at several distances before Robby, a game warden and professional hunter, drove us deep into the hunting grounds where we started our glassing and stalking – hunting is only done by glassing, walking and stalking.
The vast area has some impressive mountains, savanna, pine and eucalyptus trees and sugar cane fields. We walked up a small hill and climbed for a better view from a high-seat, a “mirador”. We glassed for quite some time when suddenly three guinea fowl and a white duck sneaked in.
“Do you want to shoot a fowl?” Lionel asked. Why not, I thought. They can make a good eating – in Europe they are a delicacy.
“You can shoot a fowl, but don´t shoot the duck! I know her, she has been living here for eight years,” he added. Silently I pulled the arrow off the quiver and put it on the rest. The birds were standing at twenty metres. Slowly I pulled the bow to full draw and the green dot pin of my sight was focused on the breast of the left bird. When my release fired the carbon arrow, it smacked into the bird within a split second, killing it on the spot. Wow, a great start for the hunter and the guide. We could not see any deer so we climbed down and radioed Robby to pick up the bird. We went up and down hills, over some meadows and through a dense forest. At the edge of the woods we paused for a moment to glass the area. We were lucky to spot a small group with two stags, an old big rusa, and a young two-year-old.
Lionel was excited. “Look at him. It is a non-typical male and has five points on the right and four on the left and a nice big rack too.” Unbelievable – impressive to see through the binoculars, the kind of rusa we were looking for –great. But now we had to find out how we could approach them.
We were at the edge of the woods, and they were on their way walking out on the other side. Between us and them were some small trees on dry grassland, and one high-seat built in a tree in the middle. That was maybe our chance to make it over there, as Lionel said that they might cross over to get to the small creek behind us. The wind was in our favor, so we stalked, crouched over, to the top of the stand. We stood up very slowly to check where the deer were, and were relieved to see them on their way, crossing our position. The wind was still good and the sun was shining bright behind us. The arrow was quickly and quietly placed on the arrow rest. The deer came closer and were at about 70 metres when I slowly pulled my bow to full draw. Lionel was focused on the rusa stag with his rangefinder-binoculars and whispered the distances …50…45…40.
Finally, at 32 metres, the stag was alone, when a left step forward exposed his vital zone nicely broadside, and I sent the arrow on its mission. The broadhead cut through the chest and flew out on the other side – full penetration. He kicked with his hind legs before he jumped and ran off, followed by the rest, to collapse after seventy metres’ flight. Lionel and I couldn´t believe it. We pulled down our face masks, gave high-fives, and hugged enthusiastically. What an amazing performance of bow and arrow. Before we descended from our high-seat I needed to sit for a moment to calm my blood pressure.
We found the arrow full of lung blood, and the follow-up was easy. A big, non-typical rusa stag with five and four points was lying in front of us. We were silent for a while to absorb the atmosphere of this special moment before we honored him with some nice trophy pictures. Robby arrived to fetch us, and we loaded the rusa on the pick-up. Luckily, Robby had brought three ice-cold “Phoenix” Mauritian beers, which tasted brilliant on that sunny, warm and special afternoon.
The next couple of days were spent on a bicycle tour exploring the region and enjoying the many attractions Mauritius has to offer, including a visit of the capital Port Louis with its shopping malls; the Blue Penny museum to see the original “Blue Mauritius stamp”; the spice market; the Pamplemousse Botanical Gardens; Casela or Vanilla Park; the Underwater Sea Walk; dolphin watching and deep-sea fishing.
Then it was time for Indonesian wild boar in the hunting grounds of Bel Ombre, not far from the resort. The lodge is on a mountain with a tremendous view of the hunting grounds, down to the beach and Indian Ocean.
These pigs were introduced to Mauritius during the English, French, Dutch and Portuguese colonial era. They have small bodies, and a boar of 30 to 40 kilograms is considered a big one. They can have nice big tusks – some, up to 20 centimetres. We drove deep into the hunting area before we left the car to start our stalk from a hilltop. The terrain made it exciting and physically demanding. Stalking in closely 30°C uphill and down, always keeping the wind in your favor, with many detours to prevent spooking deer or pigs, was extremely challenging. We went through little woods and grassland, crossed a small creek, and saw wallows that the boars frequented. We pushed through a bamboo forest that had arm-thick stems. We had stalked for several hours when we suddenly spotted a group of wild pigs moving uphill on a meadow. Excitement!
We followed them at a safe distance.
“They probably want to go to a wallow and eating area on the other side of the hill,” Lionel whispered. So we made our way there in a big circle, not to disturb or spook them. We had to go through a dense forest where there would be no shooting opportunity because of the thick foliage. Fortunately, close to the wallow was a tree-stand with good cover. Although some female pigs had arrived at the wallow, we sneaked to the stand and climbed up silently. The wind was perfect. Without making any noise I extracted an arrow and placed it on the rest. Then we saw the male boar coming and chasing the females around.
At snail´s pace I drew my bow, put the sight pin on his vitals and followed him. When the bruiser was standing still and broadside, I released the Silverflame XL-equipped carbon arrow. It hit the pig exactly where I aimed, behind the right shoulder, penetrating the animal´s body. The pig screamed and jumped up before it ran back into the woods. Both of us kept quiet, following the noise of cracking branches and leaves before there was silence. Interestingly, the females were still around and did not run away. I took a deep breath. Lionel gave me a tap on the back and whispered: “Well done, great shot. You shot your first wild boar on Mauritius.”
What an experience! Slowly my excitement subsided and my blood pressure and adrenalin level went back to normal. We waited for about twenty minutes before we climbed down, went to the shooting spot, and picked up and followed the blood track which was clearly visible. Dusk was falling, but with the flashlight we could keep on the track, and after several circles we found the dead boar roughly sixty metres from where I shot him.
We were overcome with elation. I had got my first Indonesian wild boar on Mauritius. What an awesome experience and hunting day. We pulled the boar out of the woods and placed him on an old anthill for some nice trophy pictures. Lionel walked back all the way to get the car to load the boar. Luckily, he had a cooler box with two beers – a welcome end to that magnificent hunting day.
After a few more days at the beach and sightseeing on the beautiful island, we had to leave again, and as we drove to the airport I relived this memorable time. Once more we had enjoyed a great combination of bowhunting and real vacation. Thanks to all who made the trip happen, especially Lionel, Nicolas, Kathleen and Vanessa and the other nice people from Le Chasseur Mauricien. We will come back, for sure.
Always, good hunting and all the best.
Frank
German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting, which he has practised for more than 17 years. Although he’s bowhunted in several countries, he’s become addicted to hunting in Africa since his first safari in 2004. Frank is a mechanical engineer and risk manager in the automotive industry.
Box:
Equipment:
Bow: Mathews Z7x @ 70 lbs
Arrow Rest: Mathews Down Force
Arrow Quiver: Mathews 5-arrows, detachable
Sight: TruGlo Range Rover Green Dot
Peep-Sight: G5 Magnesium
Stabilizer: Sims Limbsaver Modular
Arrows: Carbon Express Maxima Hunter 350
Broadheads: Silverflame XL 125 & Slick Trick 125 Grain
Release: Scott Wildcat
Optics – Binocular: Zeiss Victory 10 x 40
Optics – Rangefinder: Nikon Archer´s Choice
Some pictures in smaller resolution with the related captions:
Spectacular countryside and hunting area Interesting stalking.
Jun 22, 2016 | News
Tanzania: 1990s
Unparalleled Luck on Lion
By PH Erik van Eckhardt
Early in the 1990s, I was hunting in the Moyowosi Game Reserve in western Tanzania when my Norwegian friend and client, Harold, flew into this paradise on earth, carrying a brand-new Sako Safari rifle, chambered in .375 H&H Magnum.
The rifle was so new that he hadn’t even fired it! Then and there on the landing strip, we set up a target on one of the numerous termite mounds that seemed to spring from the earth on a daily basis. After he fired several rounds without even coming close to hitting the target, we decided that he should probably practice a bit before actually firing at any game.
Harold’s main objective was to try for a fully maned lion, and since lions have a deep aversion to people shooting them in the guts or the like, I told him there would no talk whatsoever of hunting these beasts until I was reasonably sure that he was going kill the animal we found. Thankfully, I had an apprentice PH who also was a gifted hand-loader and who’d brought all the necessary paraphernalia with him to reload his own .375, so he was busy re-activating Harold’s empty shells.
After some days of intensive tuition, which included dry-firing several thousand times, Harold was finally ready to go hunting. We soon found a huge topi standing characteristically on an old termite mound surveying his domains. By using a patch of long grass, we managed to get within some 60 metres of our quarry, and as Harold fired from my shoulder, I felt great satisfaction that there was no jerking of the trigger. As the topi crumpled in its tracks, I turned to Harold and congratulated him, saying that we would go cat hunting the very next day.
The soft “Jambo, Bwana Mkubwa,” spoken by my long-time companion and right hand, Hamisi, woke me at once, and soon after I heard mighty roars from the other side of the swamp. I’d promised a small remuneration to the first of my staff to hear lions roaring, and I suppose that several of them spent the night listening.
After a hasty cup of tea, we headed out in the Cruiser. We had to drive around the end of the swamp, over the landing strip, and then dump the vehicle and walk the rest, which we did in less than half an hour. Walking along the edge of the swamp, we came into an area of partly burnt grass, when a baboon suddenly sounded the alarm somewhere in front of us. We hadn’t heard any sounds from lions, so I asked my tracker to climb a small tree to see if there was any sign of the cats.
He’d hardly gotten more than a couple of metres into the tree before he came sliding down again, his eyes wide with fright: “They are right in front of us, Bwana, two of them – huge,” was all he said! I asked whether they were males or not, but he just said that they were huge lions standing behind a large, old termite mound. As quietly as possible, Harold and I sneaked up behind the mound, and I peeked cautiously through the sparse grass growing on its side. There, no farther than 15 metres away, stood one of the most magnificent lions I’ve ever seen!
I told Harold in a whisper that he should carefully sneak up and take a rest on the mound and fire away. He did so while I peeped over his shoulder with my fingers in my ears. The man just lay there looking through his scope with the beast looking back with a bewildered expression in its eyes. I whispered to him to shoot, but all he did was to adjust his position somewhat, which made the lion turn and saunter off a few metres. It then turned around and sat down on its haunches like a huge domestic cat.
There it was, an enormous, dark-maned lion, the trophy of a lifetime, just sitting there at a distance of no more than 30 metres, and my client just kept on aiming! I whispered desperately for him to shoot, but the only thing that happened was that he carefully removed a blade of grass in front of his sight! This went on for longer than I care to remember until, finally, the cat got up and walked off in the surrounding grass.
Before I exploded, an almost identical male walked out into the same burned area that the first had just left, and stopped dead, presenting the same kind of easy target.
Did Harold fire? Of course not. He just looked at it through the scope and fiddled around on top of his mound until this second lion also strolled off. We watched them loping leisurely along the floodplains to disappear in the distance.
I sat there with my head in my hands, trying desperately not to say something I might later regret, when the man stood up from his prone position and said, “That was rather silly, wasn’t it?” That did it; I just could not contain myself and exploded into a stream of words, most of which I am ashamed of to this day.
On our way back to camp, I told Harold that I doubted whether he would ever see anything like it again or ever get such a chance a second time. I did not then consider that he was unparalleled lucky.
A couple of days later, we went into an area of low-growing palm trees, a locality favoured by lions for the shade. We parked the vehicle for us to enter the trees on foot, and I told my tracker to drive the car to the other end of the area to save us a long walk back.
We’d not gone more than a 100 metres when out from beneath a palm tree walked one of the largest male lions I’d ever come across! It unhurriedly walked a short distance, only to stop and urinate on a tree trunk, blatantly showing us mere humans that this was his domain.
Before I could get my fingers in my ears, Harold laid his gun on my shoulder, but I pushed it off. The cat was standing not more than 20 metres away – he didn’t need a rest for that kind of shot!
Before he had time to start aiming again the lion walked off, and I began feeling desperate. How many chances were we going to get? Poachers had recently burned the whole area, so it was easy to follow the dinner plate-sized tracks. After walking a very short distance, I suddenly made eye contact with the cat sitting, hiding under yet another low palm. As the animal saw that it was discovered, its eyes widened and it came for us, tail whipping the air, ears up, roaring at a volume that could split eardrums and curdle your blood.
Since I know from experience that lions with tails waving and ears pricked do not drive home the attack, I took the whole thing rather calmly and told Harold to shoot. But he froze in fright. When the animal was about three or four metres from us, I grabbed Harold’s fancy safari hat and hurled it at the lion, which made it turn and run off into the bushes, all the time giving voice to its annoyance. As I turned to my client, I found him standing there, petrified, hair on end, quietly saying, “Bloody Hell,” to himself over and over again.
He asked me why I hadn’t fired, and only then discovered that I was unarmed! I had not brought my shotgun, my preferred arm for close-up work on cats, since we were only going for a short walk and I could always get it from the car if need be. However, I lost another Norwegian lion client because of the narrative Harold gave upon his return home, as he’d spread the word that a lion would surely eat me before long.
The days went by without us finding any lion worth shooting, because I will not allow the taking of males in prides, never mind the size or appearance. To do so is despicable behaviour, all too common today, as this leads to an ever-decreasing lion population. Most hunters nowadays are aware of infanticide amongst lions, where the removal of the dominant male in a pride unfailingly leads to the new male killing all the offspring up to the age of two!
In the middle of the last night of Harold’s 21-day safari, Hamisi once again woke me. “Simba, Bwana Mkubwa, Simba,” he softly whispered and I jumped out of bed and woke Harold. The roars had come from the surrounding forest, and I steered the Cruiser towards the only clearing for miles around, a beautiful “meadow” with a small waterhole. We parked the vehicle and approached on foot.
On arriving in the clearing, I felt utterly dejected – there was a dense mist over the whole area! I climbed an old abandoned and overgrown termite mound to try to look through my binoculars, and nearly fell off my lofty perch.
There were two, huge-maned lions lying out there, their heads just visible over the mist! We ran through the trees surrounding the clearing, heading for another termite mound situated some 100 metres from the cats – I thought Harold would easily be able to hit one from the top.
As we climbed the little hill, we immediately saw they were lying closer than I’d estimated, not more than 60 metres away. As we lay there and tried to catch our breath, the sun started to rise and the mist disappeared magically. The morning was gorgeous. The moisture of the night made every blade of grass and every leaf glisten like so many jewels in the rosy dawn. The many different birds awoke one by one and started serenading the slowly rising sun.
Suddenly, three Lichtenstein’s hartebeest appeared on the opposite side of the clearing, a very nice bull followed by a cow and a calf. Slowly they fed ever closer to the two predators. Harold and I had already decided not to disturb the scene with a shot before the cats got up, so we just lay there enjoying ourselves. Surely someone wonders just how calmly one could lie there, with the trophy of a lifetime a short distance out front.
The answer is quite simple: Both Harold and I were very fussy about ethics and we did not feel right about shooting a resting animal, if there was an alternative. We knew the lions were not going to tear out of there and would surely present an easy target when standing, so why hurry? Harold’s charter was not due for another five hours at least.
The hartebeests kept feeding nearer and nearer to the two cats who barely glanced at them – they’d obviously recently eaten their fill. Then, all of a sudden, something happened that I’d never even heard of. The larger of the cats got leisurely to its feet and let out a mighty roar. The intention was to make the antelope aware of his presence – and he certainly succeeded. They wasted no time dawdling around but fled like so many three flashes.
I told Harold to shoot the standing lion – it was by far the bigger of the two, and he immediately started aiming. The roar of the .375 followed very quickly, but I saw the bullet pass harmlessly just over the back of the target. The big fellow never even flinched. He did not even turn his head, but started to follow his partner who’d gotten up, stretched leisurely, and started walking parallel to us, heading for the distant woods. I told Harold to shoot again, and this time the lion reacted to the shot by turning and biting towards his midriff, a lousy sign of a stomach shot.
Grabbing my .458 I got up and raced after the two cats that had by now disappeared behind a huge termite mound. As I rounded the hill, I saw one of the lions standing some 100 yards farther on and naturally assumed that this was the wounded one, so I increased my speed.
Suddenly there was a roar just to my left, and there lay the wounded lion not five metres distant! I fired quite instinctively and ran like I’ve never run before or after, never looking back, all the time expecting to feel claws grabbing me and long fangs sinking into my body. I stopped running after a bit, without anything happening, and turned to see the big fellow lying on his side, dead as a doornail! My heavy bullet had caught him right were it should, although we discovered later that Harold’s bullet would have sufficed. It had entered a bit far back but, since the cat had been quartering slightly away from us, it had carried on through both lungs and out just behind the opposing shoulder.
I really hate hugging men, but made an exception here. Harold was ecstatic and so was I. Singing away, we loaded our prey in the Cruiser and headed for camp where everybody danced for joy. Two hours later, we waved goodbye to Harold as his charter plane winged its way over the majestic swamps.
Swedish PH Erik von Eckhardt was born in 1939 and has been hunting professionally since 1961, in Tanzania, Zambia and Tunisia.
20.3TanzaniaLionEckhardt 2250 words
“The days went by without us finding any lion worth shooting, because I will not allow the taking of males in prides, never mind the size or appearance. To do so is despicable behaviour, all too common today, as this leads to an ever-decreasing lion population.”
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
South Africa: 2014
Not for the Faint-Hearted – Hunting Bushpig in the Eastern Cape
By Kim Gattone
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!
Kim Gattone, Advertising Sales Manager for “African Hunting Gazette,” makes her home in beautiful southwest Montana and enjoys writing about her adventures to share them with others.
20.3RSABushpigGattone 1380 words
Pull-out “In my book, when shooting something that dangerous, it’s worth shooting twice to finish the fight!
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.”
