The First Lion

He’s roaring fear,

You’re stupid if you’re not afraid,

He’s built to destroy,

That’s how he was made.

See the tail flicker,

A single black weave,

See his mane waver,

In that soft breeze.

Hear his call,

It shatters the quiet,

Hear that first note,

Of the bush’s wild riot.

Look at his steps,

Don’t step where he goes,

He owns this wilderness,

As anyone wise knows.

Fight not his anger,

Contain not his power,

Track with the wisdom,

Of a man’s final hour.

Rejoice not when he falls,

But pay the King respect,

Majesty never truly dies,

It is their spirit you can never get.

By Kendal-Ray Kaschula

 

It was around June or July when my first opportunity at a lion hunt came up. I was sixteen, wet behind the ears, and absolutely clueless as to what hunting lion would involve, but when the chance arose, I couldn’t have been quicker in grabbing my rifle.

 

The lion in question was hovering around one of the ranch’s sections, catching cattle and causing mayhem in general and so, with a PAC permit in tow, we hung a few baits in the hope that we could shoot by use of a blind, but wherever it had come from had left it with more intelligence than we could refute and so every bait was left untouched, despite its’ walking withing ten yards of each.

 

My father-who was my long-time hunting partner-and I were discussing maybe using a caller when a call came via the ranch’s radio network that it had killed another cow, and the carcass had been left with more than enough meat for it to return the following night.

 

So, without hesitation and sure that this was our shot, dad and I, along with a few workers from the property, went out at lunch time-with the intent that building a blind in the heat of the day would cause our scent to rise quicker, and hopefully be completely gone by nightfall-and proceeded to build said blind, way, way up in a mopane tree. Due to having only a few hours to erect our tree blind, I can’t say it was the safest, especially after hauling up not just ourselves, but also a large car battery to run the rheostat off of, should it be required. However, we held our ground until the early hours of the night, our ears pricked for any sound of crunching or yanking at the carcass which was sixty to seventy yards away and in full view of my .375 scope.

 

Generally, lions will return to a bait-and especially a kill-that they’ve been feeding on quite early, seeing as of all the cats they tend to be the least shy, but the same skill that prevented our particular lion from eating our baits also kept him away from his kill, but undoubtedly hiding nearby as we discovered the next day, when, after returning to the carcass, we found his large tracks trekking through the sand on top of our car tire marks from the night before. These we followed to about three or four yards off the carcass where he had stood, most likely sniffed around, and then turned and promptly walked back out.

 

With all our attempts so far a fail, we then went and found a clearing at the base of a Gomo (rocky hill) in the area where it was staying and opted for a caller as a large ditch effort.

 

Perched on the back of a cruiser, I held my .375, dad held a spotlight-even though the moon was full there were a few clouds drifting around-and Tracker stood behind me.

 

Unfortunately, the section we were on isn’t full of open spaces, and so even the small clearing we had managed to find only put us sixty yards from the caller and that was with it being backed into duiker berry bushes.

 

It was something to six in the evening when we started playing, going through distress calls and even a few hyena whoops, hoping to create the sounds of a freshly-made kill.

 

We called for nearly an hour, and after about thirty minutes my ears-being the youngest on the cruiser-picked up the sound of crunching leaves to my right.

 

“Dad,” I said, “I can hear it walking next to us.”

 

All three of us searched the brush surrounding us with keen eyes by use of the moonlight, not wanting to flick the spotlight on just yet and perhaps scare away the cat if he was nearby, but despite our best efforts, we couldn’t see a single thing.

 

After a few minutes the walking sounds faded off, and it was nearly seven when I got ready to tell Tracker to run fetch the speaker because we obviously weren’t having any luck, when suddenly, there it was.

 

He strode into the clearing like he didn’t even know the cruiser was there, though there was no way he could have missed it, and just kept walking across.

 

“It’s here,” I whispered, already leaning over the roof of the car and looking through my scope. I picked it up easy enough in the moonlight, so when dad flicked on the spotlight it was a second of silence before my shot rang out.

 

The lion let out a growl, jumping high in the air as it curled over before plummeting into the bush with a crash and a bang that was followed by immediate silence.

 

Now, I couldn’t tell you how I knew the shot wasn’t good, especially since I had put the shot right behind the shoulder, but I just had one of those feelings that a fellow hunter will understand. It wasn’t a good shot, and dad wasn’t keen on any of us tracking it in the dark, so home we came.

 

Luckily, another section of the ranch had a manager who was a fully qualified PH and his friend, another PH, was with him. So, dad gave them a call and early next morning out we go, and in the back of the cruiser is Tracker and my two up and coming hunting dogs-Remy and Charlie.

 

Technically, hounds are leopard dogs, but feline is feline and we needed all the help we could get. We got back to the paddock early morning, and after a bit of walking around the track was picked up by the PH’s trackers.

 

After a bit of grabbing guns and counting bullets, and, of course, one of the Professional Hunters having to convince my dad that he should let me join the tracking party because how else was I going to learn? We were off.

 

To begin with we left the hounds on the car with one guy, and the rest of us went in, detecting very quickly that the lion was wounded and bleeding out both sides.

 

We’d been tracking for about an hour, maybe more, through thick scrub, when Tracker pulled up the other trackers and pointed ahead, but whatever he saw was long gone. What he saw? My wounded lion. However, since they hadn’t seen it as well, the others were quick to tell him that it was nothing but a jackal and so we carried on, unaware that my wounded cat was up and moving just in front.

 

We followed it for a good three hours, the sun climbing higher, and despite the PH’s wishes for it to charge by us pushing it from behind, we either weren’t tracking fast enough to catch up, or it chose to just keep going, probably because it was a younger male and not confident enough to launch its own attack.

 

Eventually, it’s explained to them that if they want the hounds, then the hounds must be used because it was getting too hot for them to be able to work. Hounds struggle to work in the heat, and even though it was late winter, it was the Lowveld, and that was still far too hot, even at barely ten am.

 

A discussion arose at this statement, as some of the group were unsure about the dogs’ capabilities, and if it would therefore be worth the effort.

 

“They’ll catch,” I said, speaking up, “they’re my dogs and I trained them, and I know them. Remy will catch it one time.”

 

And so, it was decided.

 

We sent the trackers-my own among them-to fetch the dogs, while the rest of us waited under a tree. At that point we had lost the lion’s track which was part of the incentive of bringing in the hounds, but while we were waiting one of the Hunters had to answer a call of nature, and, as luck would have it, his bush of choice was right beside a fresh spot of blood. The lion had doubled back.

 

When the hounds got in, they were, as always, chomping at the bit-or yanking at the leashes, so to say-and no sooner did I lead Remy to the blood than her whole demeanor changed as she slipped into ‘tracking mode’ her nose clearly picking up the scent.

 

“Go track Remy,” I told her, unclipping the leash, and off she went, but she’d barely gone out before she came trotting back, hair up and nervous. She’d never hunted a lion before, but instincts told her that it wasn’t to be trifled with. Now, as crazy as this sounds, me and the hounds have an understanding and so, I spoke to her, dropping to my haunches and taking her face in my hands, petting her all over. “It’s okay Remy….go out. Go track.” And off she went, only to come back again, drawing some very interesting looks from the PH’s, but I did the same thing, sending her off once more, and that time, she never looked back.

 

The trackers started to track with her, but having to work around people always throws her out. “Can we hang back please?” I asked, “She needs space.”

 

In hardly any time at all she was well and truly off, blowing the life out of the track which is when Charlie was released, and not fifteen minutes later, they started singing.

 

They were baying the lion.

 

We all took off, me hugging the side of one PH, the other far in front, and my dad bringing up the back. “To protect our tail,” he said.

 

We could hear the lion grunting, the sound changing as it moved. The dogs were holding, then losing, then holding it, but they only moved twice, finally keeping it trapped on the top of an anthill.

 

I hugged the side of the PH who was in the middle of the chase, the other far ahead, and we were almost caught up when a shot rang out, splitting the ongoing sound of the dogs’ booing.

 

A minute later we pulled up beside the PH in front in time to find the lion swiping at the hounds, but the dogs were no fools and stayed far out of reach. The PH handed me his rifle and I fired again, though by then the cat was pretty much done, and down it went in a heap.

 

For a second there was only that beautiful silence that comes in the first few moments of a Dangerous Game Hunt when you all stand and evaluate with astonishment that no one has been hurt and the animal is down, and then, as though in sync, you all erupt into cheers and whoops and smiles which are coupled with handshakes and hugs, and you know-in that place deep inside where all the best memories live-that you will never forget this moment.

 

I ran to the hounds, elated at their success, while trackers swarmed, and the hunt, hounds-everything really-was celebrated as pictures were taken, a feat in their own right when it came to pulling in the dogs and trying to get them to keep still.

 

Eventually, we loaded up the lion-a younger male with a tank of a body-and adding the dogs and ourselves to the back of one of the cruisers, set off for home.

 

It was in a quiet moment, when it was just the two of us, that Tracker gave me another reason to laugh. He told me that when he had gone back to fetch the dogs with the other trackers, they had voiced their doubts to him-in no uncertain terms-about whether or not the hounds could even catch the lion.

 

“Please,” he’d scoffed, “they do it all the time.”

 

Only, me and him both knew they’d hardly done leopards by then.

 

“And what were you going to say if we failed?” I asked, choking on my laughter at his expression of defiance that anyone could have dared to pass something remotely like a criticism about our beloved hounds.

 

“We don’t think of that,” I was informed, that look still firmly in place despite my own laughter, “we just don’t think of that.”

Rangemaster CRF R: The ultimate compact laser rangefinder

Leica Sport Optics presents the third generation Leica Rangemaster CRF R, a compact monocular rangefinder that sets new standards in precision optics and laser technology. Designed for quick and reliable aiming, this compact device will cater to the unique needs of outdoor enthusiasts and hunters, by fusing innovation with practicality.

 

At its core is a blend of perfectly precise laser technology with the highest optical performance. Focusing on the essentials, it features an intuitive user interface for easy and rapid handling, all within a streamlined housing unit. These remarkable features position the Leica Rangemaster CRF R in a class of its own, elevating the rangefinding experience to unparalleled levels in precision and user-friendliness.

 

Fast, accurate measurements: The Leica CRF Rangemaster provides precise distance measurements within 0.3 seconds, with an accuracy of +/- 0.5 yards at distances ranging from 10 to 219 yards, making it perfect for bowhunters who require maximum precision at shorter ranges. The maximum range of the CRF R is 2,000 yards.

 

Compact and lightweight: Weighing in at around six ounces, it fits comfortably in your pocket or attaches to your belt via a lightweight Cordura pouch belt, ensuring ease of use even on the most strenuous expeditions.

 

Intuitive operation: Featuring a straightforward user interface with two easy-grip buttons, users can start measuring straight out of the box.

 

Superior optics: Leica’s precision optics deliver exceptional clarity, sharpness, and color fidelity, making it ideal for game identification. The wide field of view rivals that of binoculars. The massive reduction of stray light and reflections produces a crystal-clear image with finest details. Together with absolutely realistic colors, the optical performance of the Leica Rangemaster CRF R is best in class.

 

High-class laser: Offering speedy measurements within a fraction of a second, the Rangemaster CRF R ensures accuracy even in challenging conditions, such as rainy weather.

 

Reliable angle shots: The Leica Rangemaster CRF R displays the actual measured range or the equivalent horizontal range (EHR): everything hunters need for a reliable and ethical angle shot.

 

Sleek design: The new housing is compact, grippy, and easy to handle, made from a lightweight and durable polycarbonate ABS plastic designed for one-handed operation. The easy-to-read LED display is bright and clear under all conditions and automatically adjusts to ambient light.

Afton 20 years later

In August of 2002, I first visited  Afton Guesthouse in Johannesburg, SA. The place was recommended by a PH who is no longer in the industry. I was fortunate enough to stay several times during my six weeks and three-country hunt. I was able to harvest all of the Dangerous Seven.

 

Fast forward to April of 2022, some 20 years later. I was fortunate enough to stay again with my wife, daughter, son-in-law, and two clients. What a difference two decades has made.

 

Afton was, in 2002, a warm and welcoming place for someone who had never been on the African Continent before, or an old pro. It featured old, creaky wood floors and skeleton key access for each room. It offered a few curios here and there and had some recommendations for places near to safely have  dinner and cocktails.

 

Today’s Afton is a beautiful blend of those features, but brought into a more modern world. The rooms are really updated while keeping that warm and homey feel. The meals that are now available are nothing short of outstanding, and enjoying a beer or cocktail in the boma area with a fire pit and nearby swimming pool brings this place to a whole new level.

 

The trophy room allows guests to get a close-up look at a wide variety of Southern Africa’s diverse wildlife options, while the sitting room is both warm and comfortable. The entire place displays the incredible artwork of the local people, ranging from wonderfully detailed wood carvings to leather work, and even some beautiful hand-made knives with scrimshawed bone handles, all of which are available for purchase.

 

I truly enjoyed my stay 20 years ago but the new owner/management made my stay now just that much more enjoyable. The other options offered to travelers, even if they do not have the time to stay, are phenomenal. They organize an outstanding meet-and-greet service at the aircraft, which can be incredibly comforting, especially to the first-time Africa traveler. When it comes to assistance with bringing your firearm and getting the license, there simply are no words to describe how smooth they make it.

 

Just a few years ago I traveled with my wife, three daughters, and their husbands/fiancés, none of whom, other than me, had ever been to Africa before. We did not have time to stay in Johannesburg as we were catching a flight up to Victoria Falls before returning to SA for a 10-day hunt. The issue was we had extra luggage for the hunt and firearms, all of which were a problem going up to Zimbabwe. The Afton staff made arrangements for an aircraft meet, walked our group to customs, and met us again on the other side. They then took possession of our firearms and extra luggage and secured them until our return from Zimbabwe, where they again met us at the aircraft, through customs, and then assisted with getting the firearms and luggage checked for the trip down to Cape Town.

 

I cannot begin to find words that describe how fantastic Afton was 20 years ago and surely cannot put into words how it has grown into what I can only call the finest customer, hunter, and service organization in Southern Africa. I will, without question, continue to recommend Afton to all my customers or anyone needing to travel through Johannesburg, SA.

 

Afton is truly the place where “THE SAFARI BEGINS”.

Ron Hugo started A-Fox Hunting consultants. A small family-run booking agency. They book hunting and touring trips worldwide from all of North America to New Zealand and South America but they specialize in African adventures. Ron says, “No other agency will work as hard to get you exactly what you want at the best pricing.”

Review: Rigby Big Game .416

Author Scott Perkins and his latest dugga boy taken with

Rigby’s Big Game rifle in the long-proven 416 Rigby caliber.

When I was 12, my dad took me to an Issac Walton League banquet at the Broadmoor hotel in Colorado Springs. While waiting for the banquet feast of wild game from all over the world to open, we stepped into the Abercombe and Fitch store to gaze over the many rifles and shotguns they had on display. A&F catered to the global hunter and we almost felt under-dressed walking into the store wearing a tie and sport coat. Having poured over the many hair raising hunting stories of Africa that were found in the numerous magazines and books that adorned my grandfathers and fathers libraries; I immediately went to the African rifle section to see what all of these shoulder canons were all about. There were some new and highly engraved offerings in the smaller magnums from 338 to 375 along with numerous used doubles from 375 Rimless to 450-400 to 600NE; but the one rifle that caught my eye had a dark walnut stock that had been well oiled over the years and had a few nicks and dings showing it had been used and well care for. The barrel and bolt that had the bluing worn off where a rifle that had been handled and used would show wear and tear. I asked if see that one?

 

After my father reassured the stolid salesperson that I could be trusted to safely and carefully handle a rifle, I had the opportunity to hold and shoulder an original Big Game in the highly regarded 416 Rigby caliber. If memory serves me correctly, the rifle was made in 1922 and had never been fitted for a scope. I clearly remember my dad saying that the rifle was offered at a price that equated to the average man’s annual salary. That rifle fit me like a glove. The very moment that I sighted down the barrel and held that well-worn pistol grip and forearm in my hands, I closed my eyes and could smell the heat of the day in sub-Saharan Africa that I had read so much about. I knew right then and there that one day I’d do whatever it took to be able to afford to such a fine-working piece of craftsmanship and follow my dream to Africa and hunt dangerous game, namely Cape buffalo. I remember Dad looking at the price tag and telling me that is more than most men make in a year and carefully hand it back to the gentleman.

 

Flash forward from 1966 to 2016 and I’m wandering around the block-long halls of the Dallas Convention Center surrounded by countless booths of African, North American, and European outfitters with hunting/shooting vendors from around the world. I was in manly-man heaven!

 

Navigating through the pressing crowds of people I wound my way around through the rows of booths and eventually found the Rigby display. While being introduced and nearly putting his freshly-mended broken arm back in a cast while shaking his hand, I had the great pleasure of meeting and discussing the logistics of acquiring a second generation Big Game Rigby with Marc Newton, Managing Director of Rigby. As soon as Marc returned to the UK following the US hunting convention show circuit, the funds were wired and the order was placed.

 

Nearly a year later, the US-bound rifle consignment arrived at Rigby’s importer in San Antonio, Texas. I made the 2-hour trip from Houston to the consignee’s office and made my selection. Trust me, it was hard to select just one rifle, as they were all superbly built. I was the second person in the US to take possession of the famed Rigby Big Game. I called my Dad to tell him that, “by Godfry, it took me fifty years, but I finally own a new version of the version of that Rigby rifle that I held over 50 years earlier – the famed 416.” I got the ‘make sure you break the barrel in properly’ lecture and he hoped that my shoulder could handle that big-assed rifle. “I don’t know why you want one of those things…” My dad never sugar-coated anything, but he respected my dream to finally hunt Africa with a Rigby in my hands. All the way I home I shook my head in disbelief that I now owned the same rifle that had not been made on a true Mauser action since 1939.

 

Having held an original Big Game, the second generation of the famed rifle did not disappoint. The machinists and artisans in the Rigby factory lovingly followed the original blue prints to the smallest of details. I couldn’t wait to get to the range and break in the barrel with factory ammunition. To be perfectly honest, I was not impressed with the accuracy of the factory ammunition offerings that the rifle was proofed with. After using rifles with trigger pulls in 4 pound range, it took me some time to get used to the butter smooth, 2.75lbs trigger pull. Having no take-up or creep, the trigger broke cleanly and exactly at the factory setting and it’s a pleasure to press the trigger and send nearly a quarter of a pound of lead down range. However, the wide, hockey-puck-hard butt pad, which is designed to spread the effect of the felt recoil leaves much to be desired for a slender-built person such as me. That cussed butt pad made shooting the rifle off the bench a punishing ordeal. Not wanting to put layers of coats on the Houston heat and humidity, I had resort to dreaded wussy shoulder pad to diminish the bruising effects from the 58lbs of recoil. For whatever reason, I never feel the 58lbs to 70lbs of recoil when I’m on the shooting sticks with my heavier magnum rifles. I cussed that recoil pad every time I put a round down range, but I got the rifle dialed in with the factory loads that the rifle was proofed with.

Confirming the zero after removing and installing the Recknagel quick release system.

I promised myself to not change the factory recoil pad until the rifle had been properly initiated in Africa. I figured if it was good enough for all the writers I had followed for many years, it would be good enough for me and I just had to man-up.

 

The groupings were okay, but I knew I could do better with my hand-loads. Using 400 grain Federal Triple Shock (TSX), I worked up a hand-load that will cut the same bullet hole at 75 meters – every time.

 

Having returned from a very successful Cape buffalo hunt in Mozambique, this skinny hunter is in the process of replacing the original recoil pad with a recoil absorbing model that is more bench friendly for slender-built guys like me! 

 

I first hunted Cape buffalo 15 years ago with my best friend Frank Fowler, in Coutada 10 of the Marromeau hunting district located on the Zambezi River delta in east central Mozambique. Frank and I contracted our new best friend Gordon Stark, co-owner of Nhoro Safaris to guide our first Cape buffalo hunts for us. Gordon and his partner, Chris Gough, run a highly-respected safari company hunting on the best-managed concessions found in Mozambique, Zimbabwe and South Africa. Hopefully they’ll get back to Tanzania this coming year. 

 

My John Robert’s-built Rigby in 416 Rem was my firearm of choice for those first two hunts in Coutada 10; but I always wished I had the classic 416 Rigby in my hands. Frank took his Dakota 416 Rigby and I was quite envious of that rifle and caliber. Compared to my 416 Rem, with the lower chamber pressures, the 416 Rigby is more of a hard push than a sharp crack to shoot. Frank and I love working up handloads for our doubles to replicate what they were originally regulated to and to have the most accurate ammo chambered in any of our shoulder canons. 

 

To say that the swamps of the Zambezi delta ain’t for sissys is an understatement of profound proportions. I’ll always cherish the experience of seeing the awe-inspiring herds of hundreds and hundreds of buffalo splashing through the reeds and the oppressive heat shimmering in the distance as the cattle egrets danced in the wind over the feeding herds of buffalo. Wading through chest deep papyrus reeds and pulling feet out of the black, fetid mud, knowing full well there were large crocs and hippos nearby is an experience I will never forget. Fifteen years is a long time to diminish the relentless torment of our arms and legs to the hordes of hungry tsetse flies and black clouds of mosquitos.

 

It wasn’t long enough, however, to forget the time we got lost trying cross one of the Zambezi River channels in an overloaded Argo as I was sitting atop a buffalo carcass, in a constant drizzle, no stars or moon, no waypoints on the GPS (after someone who’s initials are Gordon pushed the wrong button) to help us navigate our way back to camp. After two hours of trying to find the crossing, one of Gordon’s trackers told us that the local tracker ‘does not know his way in the dark’. After a long four hours of swatting tsetse flies, skeeters, and three sets of flashlight batteries later, Marco finally found the crossing and we made it back to camp at 2:30 in the morning. We were drenched and totally drained and fell into bed and didn’t stir until noon. Fifteen years wasn’t long enough to forget the three days we spent shivering under rain-saturated rain gear holding palm fronds over our heads as the one and only storm in the entire delta dumped monsoonal rains on us. That storm system would dump on us then drift out over the Indian Ocean long enough for us to hunt a few hours only to return and dump more rain late in the day to end a long day in the bush. The most notable day of C10 hunting memory was my first day in the delta when I nearly died from heat stroke tracking my mortally-wounded bull who just wouldn’t die, in 52C/124F temps with heat indexes in the deadly-to-humans range. I wasn’t about to let monsoon rains, blood sucking tsetse flies or the back-jarring ride and artery cooking temps of engine heat from Argos (intended to be used in the tundra of the Arctic), nor the late season oppressive delta temperatures and a little heat stroke sway Frank and me from our hunts in the delta.

Land Rovers don’t float over axle-deep mud!

I’m very proud of the dugga boys I took on those two hunts in the Zambezi swamps, but I wanted the heavy-bossed, deep curled, well swept-back dugga boys that existed further north in the delta. I wanted the classic buffalo that everyone sees in their minds eyes when they think of a dugga boy. The southern region of the Zambezi delta was very hard-hit during the 17-year Mozambique civil war and those classic Cape buffalo genetics were largely missing as a result of the 300 to 500 buffalo that were shot every week from gunships to feed the troops. The concerted effort by the 14 concession owners for the recovery of the entire ecosystem in the Zambezi delta is something that every game management student should read and follow as the way it’s to be done. It’s a remarkable success story worth the time and effort to learn about.

 

It took me nearly six years after acquiring my Rigby Big Game to take it to Africa and use it for the dangerous game that the rifle and caliber was intended for. Flying during Covid is not for faint of heart or for those of little patience. Frank and I were supposed to hook up in Atlanta and then continue our journey to Joburg and Beira as the deadly duo our co-workers had dubbed us. Frank’s flight was cancelled

and he couldn’t get to Mozambique until two days after I arrived in camp at Nyati Safaris in Coutada 14. The rustic and well-built Nyati Safaris camp is located on the banks of the Kunguma River.

 

The setting was photographer’s dreams. The crocs splashing into the water from the banks around camp and the hippo bulls were our nightly entertainment as they fought and bellowed into the early morning hours of first light.

 

After getting unpacked, we went to the shooting range and confirmed that the Recknagel mounting system left the Swarovski Z6 scope exactly where I left it at my home shooting range located in Divide, Colorado. Not wanting to waste any time waiting on Frank to arrive, the following morning, we quickly finished our breakfast and loaded our gear into the 50-year-old Series Two Land Rover named Elvis. The old Landy is so named because it shakes, rattles and rolls, but it gets you out and back.

 

We bounced and rocked our way out two hours from camp into the start of the swamps as the morning fog evaporated into steam and oppressive late season, bread-baking heat as the sun rose slowly above the horizon. Note: if there’s a bump, hole or rut in the trail that will rattle your fillings, Gordon will find it. Gordon has this bad habit of looking at the person he’s talking to rather than concentrating on where he’s driving. It makes for an interesting driving experience!

 

Being late in the dry season, we were able to drive around most of the waterlogged reeds and watch for the flocks of cattle egrets that followed the buffalo. Avoiding the big herds already cooling off in the water, the keen eyes of our trackers saw the cattle egrets feeding on the bugs kicked up by a herd of five dugga boys. After stopping and taking a hard look through the binoculars, we decided to take a closer evaluation. Staying down-wind, we made a two-mile, hour-long stalk to within 60 meters of the five bulls. They had no idea we were there and continued feeding toward us as they headed to the cool mud of the swamps to rest out the heat of the day. Comfortably resting on the sticks, I was able to evaluate all of the bulls except the one bull that immediately caught my eye.

 

One of the dugga boy’s bosses were completely worn off and the other three were a lateral move to what I had harvested years ago in C10. When the bull in question finally raised his head so I could see his right side, the trigger came off safe and as soon as he turned fully broadside, the Rigby barked in my hands as I chambered another round. He went down like a sack of bricks, yet managed to get back up and take another round before collapsing under a palm tree in an old wallow 25 yards from where he was first shot. Remembering that memorable quip that Gordon Stark coined years ago – bullets are cheap, hospitals are expensive and funerals are sad – two insurance rounds found their marks and my first bull of the hunt was headed to the salt. After six years, my Rigby had finally been properly initiated on the dangerous game and on the continent that it was intended for.

Part of the clean up crew.

Recovered 400gn TSX from the author’s dugga boy.

Arriving in camp two days later, Frank collected a nice bull on his first day of his hunt with his 416. Taking turns on the sticks, Frank took a very nice bull on the last day of our hunt. To date, this one of our best hunts ever; both of us using the venerable 416 Rigby cartridge. 

 

The devastating power of the classic 416 Rigby is undeniable. Having a true Rigby in my hands and hunting buffalo in one of the last remaining truly wild places in Africa, is the thing that fills a young man’s dreams. 

Frank Fowler with his second dugga boy taken with his Dakota chambered in 416 Rigby.

From left to right: Frank Fowler, Gordon Stark of Nhoro Safaris, Scott Perkins and the three dugga boys they took using their 416 Rigby rifles.

Looking at Kenya

Written by Ian Batchelor

 

I was born in Kenya in 1965, a turbulent time in this part of Africa with the uneasy onset of the “winds of change” sweeping the continent, with all sorts of upheaval and uncertainty. Very few countries in Africa escaped this; some emerged pretty much unscathed, others today still bear the scars of this tumultuous change. Writers like Robert Ruark romanticised this time and period with novels like Horn of the Hunterand Uhuru, still two of my all-time favorite novels! Other classics and favorite reads that bring this period in Africa to life are the works of Izak Denisen, Bartle Bull’s Safari and Markham’s West with the Night to mention a few.

 

Kenya, too, went through its fair share of upheaval and growing pains, but it has put its hand up as one of the top safari and wildlife destinations on the continent. It certainly has the many famous and world-renowned areas like the Maasai Mara, Mount Kenya, the Aberdares, Tsavo, the Ngong Hills and Mau Forest, Lake Turkana (the Jade Sea) and then, of course, Amboseli at the foothills of Kilimanjaro, Africa’s highest mountain. Many of these unusual and distant names were made household names and put on the map by the early hunters and explorers that graced these inhospitable lands (the personalities and list is endless, from Stanley, Burton and Speke to “Karamoja Bell”, Finch-Hatton and Selous). They not only carved a name for themselves but for Kenya too. They created history, started the first safaris, and ventured into the most exciting and unexplored realms, giving birth to what Kenya truly is today, a spectacular land of wildlife, landscapes and tribal culture.  Many of Kenya’s tribes still live their lives relatively unchanged by man and the modern world, offering an insight into a bygone era of African myth and legend…the Masai, the Samburu, the Turkana, the Pokot…the list goes on!

Jumping to the present, I really believe that safari and travel to Africa through much of the last century was often seen as a type of fashion statement, something for the trendy and rich and famous! This was before Meryl Streep and Robert Redford brought Kenya and the era of safari travel alive again on the big screen with Out of Africa. The film was a massive hit, and even today I recommend it to would-be clients and prospective safari-goers. It truly embodies so many things about a very special place and a very special time.

 

A private safari to Kenya is a must for any keen traveler and wildlife enthusiast – it offers some of the greatest photographic opportunities in Africa, both wildlife and people. The land has so many varied landscapes and regions of natural beauty, some of the best coastline on the African continent, from world-class accommodations and facilities to the rugged semi-desert regions on Northern Kenya, inhabited by tribes that have not changed for hundreds of years. Some still warlike and proud, they have carved their own unique existence and niche in some rather inhospitable places. Other tribes are more approachable and amenable to tourists and visitor interaction. The Samburu and the Masai with their splendid, colorful “shukas” offer a wonderful distraction from game viewing and wildlife. This is one of the last places in Africa where one can have a truly interactive experience with the original native tribespeople in their natural state.

 

The beginning of any journey through Kenya starts with Nairobi, a city that is now one of Africa’s hubs. It bustles with life, color and sounds, and names like the Norfolk Hotel with the famous Lord Delamere room will ring bells. Today there is a myriad of choice and options. A particular favorite is The Giraffe Manor. This stylish and exclusive property offers something incredible unique. Whether dining or relaxing surrounded by Africa’s tallest mammals, it is not unusual for an inquisitive giraffe to put its head through the window and inspect one’s table!

If time permits, a visit to the Daphne Sheldrick Wildlife Orphanage is an inspiring and worthwhile way to spend some extra time in Nairobi.

 

The annual migration, or rather the “Great Migration” as it is more commonly referred to, meanders its way between Tanzania and Kenya in an endless cycle of movement and drama, from the birthing of the wildebeest calves on the short-grass plains of the Serengeti to the crossing of the Mara River into Kenya and the onset of the first rains. It is a miracle of nature, a magnificent and breathtaking journey, and something I believe everyone should try to see once in their lifetime at least. The Maasai Mara is wildlife-rich and possibly one of the greatest ecosystems and wildlife areas on the planet. It has diversity and beauty, teems with game, and has a rich make-up of predators. Lion, cheetah and leopard are all abundant, as are elephant and even black rhino in certain areas.

 

There are some wonderful safari combinations with the Maasai Mara, including conservancies to the north, such as Laikipia, Borana, Loisaba and Mugie, with sweeping views of the Aberdares and Mt Kenya (Africa’s second-highest mountain). These gems are now at the forefront of successful wildlife conservation. With community buy-in and support, they are leading the field in so many areas. Lewa is another conservancy that ranks among the best destinations on the continent, with many black and white rhino on the savanna plains. Other exciting wildlife areas in Kenya include Tsavo, the scene of the infamous man-eating lions at the turn of the last century.

Follow in the footsteps of those early adventurers and see for yourself. It will be a journey you will never forget!

Ian was born in Nakuru, Kenya in 1965. He spent the early years of his life in this incredible and varied land before his parents moved to Rhodesia, now Zimbabwe. Ian completed his schooling in Zimbabwe at Prince Edward High School for Boys before going to University where he attained an Honors Degree. He also spent a number of years in the South African Army in the 1980’s, part of a very interesting ‘life experience’ as he puts it!
Ian began his work in the safari industry in 1991, he started out as a trainee canoe guide on the Zambezi River and worked his way up through various positions and companies. He was a Game Ranger at a private reserve in South Africa and then went on to hold the Senior Guide position in a company in Malawi & Zambia. In 1996 Ian moved to Tanzania, initially managing an exclusive new safari camp and then later guiding private and exclusive safaris throughout Tanzania for a leading American owned company. He worked, lived and guided in east Africa for the next 14 years.
Ian is a qualified and experienced professional; holding both a PH and Professional Guide License in Zimbabwe and has a very strong conservation and wildlife centric background. A keen wildlife Photographer who loves to share his knowledge with his guests. Today he runs with his wife, Nonnie a successful safari operation, ‘Upmarket Safaris’ offering 50 odd years of combined experience – specializing in private guided journeys for the discerning traveler. They can be contacted at: ian@upmarketsafaris.net; nonnie@upmarketsafaris.net; www.upmarketsafaris.net

This will close in 2 seconds

0
    0
    Your Cart
    Your cart is emptyReturn to Shop
    Privacy Overview

    This website uses cookies so that we can provide you with the best user experience possible. Cookie information is stored in your browser and performs functions such as recognising you when you return to our website and helping our team to understand which sections of the website you find most interesting and useful.