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
