Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences Part 15

Mar 8, 2023 | Archive, News, News

Written by Neil Harmse

 

 

Chapter 16. A Storm to Remember

 

Living in the bush has its memorable moments, as well as its problems and dangers, but the dangers are not always from wild animals. One of the most frightening moments during my time living in the bush was caused by the elements generating a storm of frightening proportions. In February of 1984, the tropical cyclone Domoina had developed from Madagascar and crossed over Mozambique, through Swaziland, (then) Zululand and parts of the eastern Lowveld, leaving a trail of devastating destruction across the region. Fortunately, the storm just brushed along the southern Kruger Park, which did not suffer the full effects of the might of the cyclone.

 

About 18 months after this cyclone, having recovered and repaired the damage caused, and with worries about these storm systems all but forgotten, we carried on with life as normal. I happened to be at home with my family for a few days and not in the bush on control work or patrol. The day was very hot and humid, and the children were cooling off in the pool when my wife, Sue, pointed westwards and said the sky was unusually dark, with black clouds rolling in. We felt there was a heavy thunderstorm and possibly rain and hail on the way. Sue asked Janet to collect the cushions from the garden chairs, which were being blown around and on her way back to the house, the wind actually blew her off her feet. We called the children inside, brought the dogs into the house as well, and decided to get a pot of coffee on the boil and wait it out.

 

Not long after settling in the house, the wind started gusting with a force that rattled windows and doors. The sky became very dark, almost night-time black, and soon large drops of rain splattered against the windows and roof. Then the hail started, small at first, but then the stones increased to the size of golf balls. In the dark and rain, there was no way of getting outside to start the generator so that we could switch the lights on, so we simply lit a few Dietz lanterns and, with coffee and biscuits, decided to simply sit out the storm, as there was nothing else to do. The hail sounded like gunshots hammering and banging against the windows and on the corrugated iron roof of the house. With all the noise, conversation was impossible. I must admit that I was very worried and frightened, as this was the worst storm I had ever experienced, but I was trying to keep calm to show the children that there was nothing to be scared of. Sue and I, both very concerned, tried to make light of the situation to prevent them from panicking.

Our roof destroyed in the storm with hail on the ground.

Janet, who was about six years old at the time, wanted to get one of her dolls from her room. She had barely reached the passage when a terrible screeching and tearing sound seemed to come from all around. I ran through the house to the bedrooms and was shocked to see the sky above. The roof was ripping loose and peeling off overhead. It was really a frightening experience! Hail and rain were simply pouring into the house from overhead. The children were now in total panic and I must admit that I was not far off myself. In a situation such as this, where you have no control, it is truly terrifying. Sue and I grabbed the children, ran to the dining room and climbed onto the dining table. Water was flooding like a river down the passage through the house and out of the veranda and kitchen doors.

After what seemed like hours, but in reality could not have been more than 30 minutes or so, the storm appeared to decline in force and the rain and hail seemed to be stopping. The house inside was in a total shambles. Furniture, bedding and everything inside was drenched, carpets, mats, lion and leopard skins on the floors had been washed into heaps against the walls and doors, and ankle-deep water was still flowing through the house.

 

Once we could venture outside, the damage was quite a shock. One section of the house roof had ripped and peeled off and the ceiling covers inside were gone. The carport was blown away and the dog kennel had been lifted by the wind and dumped onto the bonnet of my Range Rover. A large acacia tree had broken off and wound up in the swimming pool. Our veggie garden and flowerbeds were virtually gone. Everything was in chaos. When we could eventually drive to the other side of the farm, we saw that other houses had suffered the same fate as ours and the farm school for staff children was totally missing its roof, which had been completely ripped off the structure.

 

Once you have experienced the power that nature can unleash, you realise how very vulnerable and powerless we mere humans are against the elements. Only by God’s grace and mercy are we protected from harm in a situation such as this. I admit that I was really scared facing this force: I would rather face a charging elephant, buffalo or lion than ever have to go through anything like that again.

The school building without a roof.

The roof blown off living quarters.

To order Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences – the complete book with illustrations (US $15 excluding S&H), contact Andrew Meyer at andrewisikhova@icloud.com

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

Mar 8, 2023 | Archive, News

From the Cape to Kasserine: Ten Years of African Hunting 2007 – 2016

Craig Boddington (Safari Press, 2018, 324 pages.)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

 

This is the fourth book in Craig Boddington’s series describing his African hunting adventures; he writes one every decade, but for my money this is the best yet. Boddington is without doubt the preeminent contemporary writer of African hunting tales, and reading From the Cape to Kasserine it’s easy to understand why. To begin, his writing style is never pretentious; it’s simple, down to earth, easy reading. You never have to work, you can simply sit back and enjoy.

 

Boddington also avoids the self-worshipping so many others fall prey to. He’s typically very self-effacing, not shy about relating his blown stalks, missed shots, or his fear of snakes. In essence, he’s just like the rest of us, and that relatability is in large measure why so many enjoy his books. Boddington is also enjoying a hunting life many of us aspire to, and living vicariously through his exploits helps get us through those long winter nights.

 

In From the Cape to Kasserine you’ll find the usual suspects you’ve come to expect from one of Boddington’s books. He describes his varied hunts in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Zambia, Mozambique and Tanzania, of course, but lesser destinations include Cameroon, Ghana, Uganda, Tunisia, Liberia and Burkina Faso, among others, are also included. Given the breadth of the destinations, it’s little wonder that the hunts described run the gamut from aardvarks to zebra. Literally. Whether your dream animal is an elephant or a tiny royal antelope, there’s a story here that will pique your interest.

 

One of the other great features of Boddington’s books is that his natural interest in the history, geography and ecology of the places he visits shines through. The reader will come away from each tale not just entertained, but a little more informed for their effort; Boddington doesn’t focus solely on the hunt as too many others do. From the Cape to Kasserine is also liberally sprinkled with wonderful photos that support the stories while concurrently providing a little hunter’s eye cand

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Are Cape Buffalo Really That Dangerous?

Mar 8, 2023 | News

By Ken Moody

 

We’ve all heard the stories. The maniacal, charging buffalo bearing down on the quivering client as our hero, the professional hunter, brings his mighty double rifle to bear, ending the chaos with a well-placed shot, or worse – getting killed in the process.

 

Yes, buffalo tales have been told and re-told around the African campfire since man began hunting the beasts, and many of these have appeared in magazines and blogs dedicated to our love of buffalo hunting. But how much of it is true and how much is just simple lore, embellished to give the buffalo demon-like qualities, and unstoppable powers? Let’s see if we can separate fact from fiction and give our hunting brethren a look at old ‘Black Death’ and see if this gentleman really deserves his dark reputation.

 

I am the owner/director of Ken Moody Safaris, a close corporation opened in South Africa in 1994, and since that time have had the privilege of conducting around 400 hunts for Cape buffalo. While most of my safaris have been in South Africa, I’ve also hunted Zimbabwe for twelve years and Mozambique for eight, all for buffalo as the primary species. In Zim, I’ve hunted buff in the Omay, Dande, Chirisa, Matetsi, Gokwe, and the Beitbridge areas, and in Mozambique, I mostly hunted Coutada 10 and other areas bordering KNP. South Africa has found me hunting buffalo in seven of the nine provinces, mostly the Limpopo, NorthWest, and Kwa-Zulu Natal. I offer the above as only an indication of my experience hunting these animals and knowledge gained in doing so. I know buffalo, but if anyone, regardless of their level of experience, claims to know it all, they are lying.

 

So, what made Cape buffalo so different from their bovine brethren?

 

That can be summed up in one word: environment. Unlike other species of wild cattle, the Cape buffalo lives in a hostile world. The environment that is home to the African buffalo is also home to an array of predators including lion, wild dogs, hyena, and others, which single out sick, weak, or young buffalo and hound them until they can kill and eat. Then, there’s man that hunts them for sport and food. It is this constant pressure that has forced Cape buffalo to evolve into such tenacious survivors. Living, for them, necessitates their fighting spirit, for if they displayed the traits of their brothers in Asia, South America, or Australia, they would have been wiped from Africa long ago. It’s kill or be killed in Africa, and no species knows this better than the Cape buffalo. They will fight for life until the very end.

 

Hunting buffalo is generally a standardized process depending on where they are hunted.

 

Ideally, the focus will be on finding lone bulls or small groups of bulls that have moved out of the herds. In wild areas one focuses primarily on water sources, talks to locals, and checks the roads for tracks indicating movement. Once an acceptable track is found – generally a large, circular, square-toed print – the tracker will take the spoor and eventually lead the professional hunter and his client to the buffalo or herd. Then, it’s up to the skill of the professional to get the client onto the correct buffalo and into position to make a shot. When hunting the floodplains and river areas in Mozambique and other places, where tracks are often difficult to discern, glassing for cattle egrets which ride atop buffalo is one of the best options. Once the birds are located, and with the correct wind, the professional will lead his client into the proximity of the herd and begin the selection process of bagging a nice bull. Google Earth and apps such as On X Hunt nearly preclude the need for the old topo maps, but when hunting wild, open areas, a good map combined with GPS are, in my opinion, necessary tools.

The outlier for buffalo hunting is South Africa.

 

It is here where international clients can have either a superb buffalo hunting safari or a canned, less than desirable experience. It is also here where less experienced dangerous-game professionals can be found operating, as the licensing procedures and mandates necessary for the acquisition of a dangerous-game hunting permit are somewhat less stringent than in other countries. Being open on one’s register does not equate to having experience. It simply means the professional is legally qualified to conduct the hunt.

 

While there are areas in South Africa which can technically be classified as open or free range, bordering KNP and other locations, most hunting for buffalo will occur on high-fenced, privately owned ranches of various sizes. These ranches will feature either naturally propagating animals, a combination of naturally propagating and released, or purely ‘put and take’ small affairs where game is bought and released specifically for hunting.

 

Game sourced for stocking is either acquired through game-capture companies that locate and capture game and move it from one ranch to another, or by purchasing at auction where game has either been raised/bred for auction, or captured and moved to auction. Buffalo are no exception and are frequently moved and restocked. As the hunting environment is controlled by the presence of high fence, the landowner must decide how he will operate his property. He may opt to simply breed animals, or he may choose to hunt them. If he acquires a P3 Exemption Permit, he will be allowed to legally regulate his own game and allow hunting on the property for all species indicated on the P3 (I am a former landowner in South Africa have gone through this process myself).The landowner may then offer his game for hunting to a licensed outfitter who must have written hunting rights from the landowner, and have the venue inspected and approved for hosting international clients. The landowner will also provide a specific game quota to the outfitter for what game may be hunted and in what numbers.

 

The above is the process, and anyone being secretive regarding it should be a red flag to potential clients.

 

Hunting buffalo in South Africa is not very different from hunting them elsewhere. While the terrain and experiences vary from province to province, most buffalo hunting will occur in the thick bush. Buffalo love the thornbush, and it is here where they will likely be found. Well-maintained ranches in South Africa usually have good road networks, and good professionals in SA take full advantage of them. Concentrating initial search efforts around waterholes, trail cams are usually deployed to capture images of potential target animals and pinpoint the area where they operate. They can also allow one to see the actual buffalo so that a quick determination can be made as to whether to pursue or pass. This time-saving effort allows the professional to move on to seek better options for his client if necessary.

 

If trail cams are not deployed, then a manual sweep of the waterholes is required to see what is drinking where. Once a reasonable track is found, then an initial track is established to see the buffalo’s direction of travel. At this stage, the road networks come into play, as most ranches in South African are divided into blocks with roads around them. These blocks can be 100 to 1,000 acres in size, sometimes much larger.

The savvy professional will then begin jumping blocks by taking the buffalo track into a block and then driving around it to see where the buffalo exited into an adjoining block. Once the buffalo is isolated in a particular block, the party will return to where it entered, and track into the bush until finding the herd. If the wind is wrong, as it usually is, then the professional may cross track or back out and return when more favorable winds are present. The process is repeated daily until a buffalo is bagged or other tactics utilized.

 

Block jumping is a tedious process but does save time when compared to simply taking the track from the point at which it is initially found and walking it for the duration, entering/exiting blocks as progress is made. In areas of large buffalo concentrations, sweeping the roads by dragging brush behind a vehicle will help in finding fresh spoor the following day, getting the party onto a good track more quickly.

 

It’s always the client’s choice as to how he wants to hunt his buffalo, and many opt to track it from the onset of finding the first good track. Regardless, even in South Africa you can count on doing a lot of walking unless hunting from a 

hide/blind. Hunting buffalo properly in South Africa can be an exciting, fulfilling adventure provided quality operators are chosen to conduct the hunt. One must simply decide on what type of buffalo hunt is wanted, and then select the team that offers it.

 

And now we get to what makes a Cape buffalo that of which nightmares are made.

 

Going on the track of wounded buffalo requires the correct mindset and preparation because yes, Cape buffalo really are that dangerous. Whether you’re hunting them in the northern Omay of Zimbabwe or among the baobabs of South Africa, a buffalo is a buffalo, and, once wounded, will quickly revert to his well-earned reputation regardless of lineage. While only about five in a hundred will charge, it’s the chargers that must be dealt with calmly and professionally.

 

A buffalo charge is controlled chaos. How much ‘control’ depends on the experience of those tasked to stop it. In my company, I have one standing rule that cannot be violated… a professional hunter will NOT track a wounded buffalo alone. There must always be two experienced guns on the track and the client doesn’t count.

 

An inexperienced client can be a bigger threat to life than the buffalo itself. The professional is there to protect the client and cannot expect the client to properly handle a buffalo charge. Of much benefit to all is a good tracking dog. A dog saves lives, and the little Jack Russell terrier seems to have found a niche in finding and baying wounded buffalo. Small and nimble, the little Jack will bark and harass the beast, allowing the hunting party to close in and drop it. Without a dog, everyone must have their heads on swivels, spatial awareness being critical.

 

If shot from a herd, the wounded bull will usually stay with the herd for as long as he can, the herd pulling the wounded one along with it. As he weakens, the bull will separate, hopefully staying alone. If shot from a group of old Dagga Boys or a small bachelor herd, the entire group will generally stay together moving into the thickest parts of the bush. The track may be direct or meandering depending on whether the buffalo is moving to a place of known safety or just wandering about looking for cover. If the wounded bull is badly hurt and moving slowly, he might separate from the group, but always expect to find the wounded bull ‘covered’ by a comrade. It’s these satellite bulls that must be accounted for, as they charge and kill as many people as the wounded ones. ALWAYS expect that there’s another buffalo lurking.

The initial track must be steady and deliberate, as the best time to close and kill a wounded buffalo is the first encounter. You can expect to find the wounded bull on your flank, as they often circle back like a fishhook to watch their backtrack, and it is from here that they will launch a charge or run away.

 

Mostly all of them will run away so if the wounded bull isn’t killed on the first encounter, the hunting party must press the track, moving quietly but as fast as feasible, as the buffalo knows he’s being pursued.

 

He now must be ‘walked down’ and forced to stay put from fatigue and blood loss or charge, as giving him rest breaks during the track results in a continuous string of bump-and-run encounters until darkness stops the track. A professional who believes it best to move very slowly and over cautiously after the initial encounter is simply afraid and/or inexperienced. The bull will almost certainly go with the wind in his favor, so your odds of sneaking up on a wounded buffalo are slim. You simply must close and kill him.

 

Eventually, the buffalo will come to a decision point. The constant hard pursuit combined with the effects of the wound will cause the bull to find a thick, nasty place to stop and wait for his pursuers. A good tracker can sense when the bull is close, and a good dog knows it. The presence of any fresh blood should be a good indicator of proximity. If the buffalo has decided to make his last stand, one of two things will occur… he will stand motionless hoping to be passed by or he will charge. A motionless bull you will find and kill even in thick cover, but a charging bull is a different story.

 

The line of march on track is primary tracker; professional hunter; client; backup rifle, then second tracker. The second tracker comes forward when the primary needs help, and the backup rifle may move to a flank from time to time to help scan the area and provide unobstructed frontal fire if needed, but generally, this is how the party moves on track. It is a good idea, terrain permitting, to have the client up with the professional so that he can be directed, sometimes with a hand on the shoulder to guide him into position. Everyone wants the client to kill his buffalo, so every opportunity is given to him.

 

A buffalo charge is sometimes preceded by a ‘woof’ from the bull, alerting the group as he comes. Not always, but sometimes. The charge will be fast and deliberate, an explosion of noise from breaking branches and hooves pounding the ground. In thick bush, it will come from close range, so don’t expect to see any bolt actions being cycled. For a professional, a good double rifle is a must, in my opinion, as a close-range charge will likely only allow for one decent shot and maybe a last-second lifesaving shot.

 

These are expensive investments, but how much is your life worth?

 

The internet professionals that speak of shot placement on a charging buffalo have likely only seen one on TV as, in truth, all you can do is put the front bead of your barrel on the area of the buffalo’s bobbing head and wait until your odds of making a crushing shot are the greatest. This moment is the most anxious you’ll ever experience. Never try and follow the head, just level your barrel, and wait until he closes then give it to him. For the professional, a backup rifle caliber must start with a 4 or larger, and the bullets used should be of a meplat type solid, capable of finding their way to the brain or spine, which are the only places you can hit to stop a charging buffalo. You may turn a charge with enough lead, but only a brain/spine shot will end it. After the buffalo is down, one or more follow-up shots are a must. Never, ever assume a buffalo is dead until he’s in the salt.

Cape buffalo by Joffie Lamprecht

If contemplating a buffalo hunt, think about what it is you want in your safari and don’t romanticize about it.

 

Reading is easy, and marveling over the adventures of others while seeing yourself doing the same is great, provided you can do it. Do an honest assessment of your capabilities, and look for an adventure that fits you, not one that you cannot enjoy. If you’re unfit, or unhealthy, please don’t burden a professional with your presence on a 12-mile-day buffalo hunt into the wilds and woolies of Zimbabwe. No one will enjoy it, you least of all. Customize your hunt to your capabilities, and you’ll have a helluva good time. Getting yourself in better shape by walking is highly advised.

 

Choose a rifle that you can shoot accurately. Bringing a .600 Nitro double rifle that scares the hell out of you is not impressive. Rather opt for a good .375 or .416 with a 1×4 scope that you are ‘dead nuts’ with and can help the professional help you.

 

Once you’re honest with yourself and decide on how and where you’d like to hunt buffalo, do a little research. Be wary of internet postings either praising or tearing down an operator, as many of these are simply other operators posting as if they were clients, agents of other operators, cousins, friends, whatever. Social media is full of misinformation, and the hunting industry is no exception. Also, watch out for the ‘too good to be true’ ads that offer buffalo hunts at unreasonably low rates. There are reasons for them, and, while some are legitimate, most are certainly not quality hunts and almost all of them are from South Africa where animals can be bought and dropped for shooting quickly.

 

The bottom line is to be wary, regardless of your hunting destination desires. Make sure your assigned professional hunter is dangerous-game qualified for the province you’ll be hunting in, and ask specifically of the company you’re considering a hunt with how many buffalo it bags in a season. Is it a buffalo hunting company or do they only do a few each year, spending most of their time shooting impala and warthogs? A dangerous-game license in SA can be obtained with a few photos and testimonials, so ask about the PH and his actual level of experience. You wouldn’t want to ride in NASCAR with a driver in his first race, so why risk your life hunting buffalo with an amateur? Most buffalo hunting fatalities occur in South Africa, and while most of that can be attributed to the fact that most buffalo are hunted in South Africa, there are also instances of inexperience which has led to death.

 

With that being said, I can state for the record that South Africa offers the best buffalo hunting value on the continent, has the best logistics, best accommodations, best food, and some of the finest professionals to ever walk a track. Those ‘fly by nights’ that give the country a bad name are greatly overshadowed by the vast majority of those who want to do things the right way. Seek out those guys and you’ll have one of the most enjoyable, satisfying adventures you can imagine. Good reputations are hard earned, not made up.

 

So, is Cape buffalo hunting really that dangerous?

 

You bet your last dollar it is.

 

Regardless of where you hunt them and under what conditions, once a buffalo is wounded and flips that switch, all the survival instincts of his ancestors are immediately brought to bear. This ‘Bush Tank’ is relentless and his unwillingness to succumb to the reaper is legendary. He can take more lead than a foundry and is not impressed by you. He will not give you his life willingly. It must be taken. Those who wish to pursue him, should do so totally prepared for what might happen, as there’s nothing more humbling than facing one’s fears and shortcomings when the possibility of death is present. You can possess all the wealth in the world, but Nyati don’t give a damn! You can’t buy your way out of the trouble you sought. You paid for it, and you came looking for it on his turf.

 

So, what now, Bwana? Did you choose wisely?

A Close Encounter With A Lion

Mar 8, 2023 | News

This account of a close encounter with a lion near the Limpopo River in 1845, appears to have been written by William Oswell, a former big-game hunter, three years before his death.

 _________________________________________________________________________________

Groombridge,

7 July, 1890.    

 

My Dear Baker

Mrs Oswell and myself thoroughly enjoyed our stay with you and your charming wife in June. It was a true pleasure for us both to renew old times and friendship. We trust that your trip to India will be a pleasant one, and the ship you are travelling one, the Arcadia, will once again provide safe and pleasant transport to Bombay. 

 

I have taken your advice, bought a ream of foolscap, a box of J pens, and a gallon of ink, and have decided to write a book. As you say, the Africa we knew is long gone, and the new smokeless rifles take all the fun and danger out of hunting. Readers might well be interested in my encounters with big game.

 

As you have written many books, I would appreciate your comments on what follows: my close encounter with a lion, in the country of the Ba-Wangetsi in 1845.

 

One morning, our head man told me there was no food for the fourteen dogs that protected us at night. I thus took up my gun, which was loaded only in one barrel, and strolled out on the chance of a shot, but as, kill or miss, I intended to return immediately, I did not carry any spare ammunition. A reedy pond lay close in front of the wagons, in a little opening; beyond this, as on every other side, stretched a sea of bush and mimosa trees.

Two hundred yards from the outspan I came upon some quaggas and wounded one, which, although mortally hit, struggled before falling. I followed, and marking the place where it fell, turned back, heading (as I thought) towards the wagon, meaning to send out men for the flesh.

 

No doubt of the direction crossed my mind – the pool was certainly not more than four hundred yards away in a straight line and I thought I could walk down upon it without any trouble; so I started, not realising how the line of my own tracks had to follow the quagga.

 

It was now about 10 a.m.; little did I think that 5 p.m. would find me still seeking three vans nearly as large as Pickford’s [a furniture removal company], and half an acre of water.  In my first cast I cannot say whether I went wide or stopped short of the mark I was making for, and it was not until I had wandered carelessly hither and thither for half an hour, feeling sure that it was only the one particular bush in front of me which hid the wagons, that I very unwillingly admitted that I was lost in this sea of bushes and trees.  

 

The sun was nearly overhead, and gave but little help as to direction, and having to constantly turn to avoid thick patches of thorns made it practically impossible, to walk in a straight line.  I tried walking in circles in the hopes of crossing the wagon’s wheel tracks, but though this plan had worked before, it now failed.

 

I plodded on with the empty gun.  Occasionally, small herds of rooyebuck [rooibok, impala] and blue wildebeest, evidently very much at home, swept and capered past me, and stopping and looking at me with wondering eyes, increased my feeling of loneliness. I had no doubt of regaining my party next day at latest, and cared but little for passing a night in the jungle; but bewildered and baffled, I envied the instinct of the co-called wild animals, which careless of their steps, never got lost.

 

Twilight near the Tropics is very short. Just before the sun set, therefore, I followed a game track which I knew would lead to water, as it was still early in the season and the rain supply had not dried up in the hollows. At dusk I reached a pool similar to the one I had left in the morning. After a good drink of water, I began collecting firewood. But, because it was very scarce and the night closed in so rapidly, I had barely got enough for an hour’s fire when the sun set.

 

Partly to save fuel, partly in the hope that as night crept on signals would be made from the wagons, I climbed a tree which stood by the side of the water, and had not been long perched before I heard, though so far off that I could hardly catch the sound, the smothered boom of guns. Alarmed at my absence my companions suspected the cause and were inviting my return; but it required a very pressing invitation indeed to induce a man to walk through two miles of an African wood, in those days, on a dark night.

 

This particular spot, too, was more infested with lions than any other, save one, I had ever been in. Although lions are harmless and cowardly enough, as a rule, in the day, they are far more active and dangerous at night.

 

But I had been walking all day under a tropical sun, my clothing was wet with perspiration, and it now froze hard – for freeze it can in Southern Africa – and I was bitterly cold.  I determined to come down from the tree and light my fire. I knew it would last but a short time, but thought I would make the best of it and thaw myself before attempting to return. 

 

I had just reached the lowest branch of my tree, and placed my hand beside my feet to jump off, when a loud growl from the bush immediately under me and the sound of a heavy body slipping through the thorny scrub, warned me that a lion was passing by. Whether the creaking of the tree had aroused his attention and made him speak just in time, I don’t know, but without the warning in another half second I should have unwittingly jumped onto his back. I very quickly climbed two or three yards back up the tree.

Presently from the upper end of the pool came the moaning pant of a questing lion; it was immediately answered from the lower end. The lions were searching for their supper, and had divided the approaches to the water between them. It was much too dark to see anything, but from the sounds they seemed to walk in beats, occasionally telling one another of their whereabouts by a low pant; of my presence I think they were not aware.

 

This went on for an hour or more and I grew colder and colder; my beard and moustache were stiff with frost; I could not much longer endure the cramped position in my scraggy tree, and I felt I must get down and light the fire, when suddenly up rose the blessed moon and right beneath her the sounds of three or four muskets fired together. With the help of her light and partial direction in case my companions grew tired of firing, I was not going to stay up a tree to be frozen. 

 

Waiting, therefore, until the moon was about one tree high above the horizon, and until the lions were as far away as I could hear from their sounds, I came down and capping [loading detonating caps into the gun] my empty gun [Oswell had not loaded it with balls and gunpowder], I ran to the end of the water, and dived into the bush on the opposite side.

Oswell suddenly realises there is a lion just below him.

While I was in a hurry, I soon decided to move slowly and cautiously. An African forest was then alive at night. I thought only of the lions, and especially of the two I had I had left at the water; but every nocturnal animal that stirred kept me on the stretch – the less noise the more danger; the movement of a mouse might well be mistaken for the stealthy tread of the King of the Cats.

 

Among the trees the moon gave but a scanty light, and nearly every minute I had to stop and listen as some unseen animals passed near me. Sometimes I could recognise them by their cry, but mostly it was a running that could not be seen of skipping beasts, that troubled me. The only animal that I really saw that night was a rhinoceros with head and tail up, and in a terrible fuss, that crossed my path a few yards ahead of me.  

 

A sound in front, and I strained my eyes into the shadowy darkness in advance: the rustling of a leaf could be life to the right or left; the snapping of a twig of possible death in the rear. But I struggled on for an hour I should think, when, stooping to clear a low bough, four or five muskets fired together within fifty yards, told me that I was at home at last.

 

I hope I was thankful then; I know I am now. Two of my assistants and some helpers had come some distance into the bush in the hope of meeting me, and escorted me to the fire in triumph. As I held my half-thawed hands over the fire, the baulked roar of a disappointed lion rang through the camp. He had not been heard before that night. “He has missed you, Tlaga, by a little this time,” said my black friends, “let him go back to his game”.

They were right, for in the morning we found his spoor following mine for a long way back. Whether he had come with me from the water, or I had picked up a follower in the bush, I never knew. My constantly stopping and listening probably saved me, for a lion seldom makes up his mind very suddenly to attack a man, unless hard pressed by hunger. He likes to know all about his prey first, and my turning, and slow jerky progress had doubtless roused his suspicions.    

 

Affectionately yours,

 

William Oswell.

Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences Part 14

Feb 9, 2023 | Archive, News, News

Written by Neil Harmse

 

 

Chapter 15. Geoff’s Lion and Baboon

 

A good friend of mine has always had a yearning to shoot a lion. When I was involved with problem animal control, Geoff kept asking me to call him if there was an opportunity to join me and perhaps get a shot at one of the problem animals that kept raiding and killing livestock. I told him it was not really a hunt, but more a matter of shooting problem animals. Nevertheless, he wanted to accompany me and hopefully have a chance of bagging a lion for his trophy room.

 

I knew that Geoff was an experienced hunter and I felt there would be no problems if he accompanied me on a foray against the cattle-killing lion. He had his own business in Johannesburg, so he would be able to drop everything and drive down to Malelane at short notice, if necessary.

 

The estate had a large section allocated as a ‘game’ area, with a few valuable species such as roan antelope, tsessebe, zebra, kudu, impala, giraffe and other animals.

 

One rather persistent lion continually broke through the perimeter fence and kept killing the game animals. After two of the roan had been killed, we decided that this lion had to be removed, as it had also caught and eaten two heifers from the cattle kraal.

 

I received a report that a zebra had been caught and partially eaten in the game camp. There was still a lot of meat on the carcass and I felt the lion would return the following day. I immediately called Geoff, who was excited and did some very low flying in his BMW, reaching the farm in about four-and-a-half hours.

 

He brought along a .375 over-and-under double rifle, which he had bought, but never hunted with. In sighting the rifle, we found that it would not group and one barrel consistently shot about 15-20cm high at 50m. I was not happy about this, but Geoff wanted to shoot his lion with the gun and said he would compensate for the height. I felt that with me backing him, it would be fine.

 

We started out early the next morning and found that the lion had not fed. On following the tracks, we saw that it had returned to the Kruger side of the river. With a bit of luck, it would return late that afternoon and we would hopefully get a shot at it over the kill. I did not want to cut branches and vegetation from nearby, in case it alerted the lion, so we brought some leafy vegetation and reeds from the river bank and built a small hide about 30m from the zebra carcass. We moved into the hide at about 3.30pm and made ourselves comfortable to await the lion’s return.

Geoff and the lion.

After about two hours, with the sun starting to go down, we heard baboon barks towards the river and I whispered to Geoff that the lion was possibly on its way. Just as it was getting dark, I could hear soft grunts from the lion. Then it suddenly seemed to materialise from nowhere and was standing on the far side of the carcass. I gripped Geoff’s arm, indicating that he should hold his fire. Then, as the lion moved around and stood broadside on, I signalled Geoff to take a shot. At the report of the shot, the lion spun around and collapsed.

I told Geoff to shoot again. His next shot went over the lion and into the bush. I was unsure about the first shot, even

though there was no movement from the lion. We approached cautiously, Geoff with his rifle and I with my .357 Magnum revolver in one hand and my rifle in the other. From about 2m away, I saw a movement: the lion was trying to lift its head. I immediately fired the revolver into the lion’s head, which ended matters once and for all.  

 

Geoff was very excited about his lion, but commented that his prize, trophy skull mount would have a big hole in the top of its head. Well, rather the lion than me! On examination, we found that the first shot from the side had also been a bit high and had clipped the spine, paralysing the animal, but not killing it.

 

While he was down on the farm, Geoff decided he could do with a good baboon trophy for his trophy room. There were many baboons in the area, which caused a lot of damage to the fruit crops and sugar cane. These creatures were extremely cunning and not easy to approach for a shot. They always had lookouts to warn the troop of anyone trying to approach and, at any alarm, would charge over the border fence and into the safety of the Kruger Park, where they knew they could not be shot.

 

We tried for about three days to get near, but without luck. I suggested that we try an ambush manoeuvre, where I would drive along the edge of the sugar cane land and slow down to allow Geoff to jump out and hide in the bushes. I would then drive away to attract the attention of the lookout baboons. With a bit of luck, he would get a long range shot with his .270 and have his hard-earned trophy. As I drove away, I could see the troop moving back and scaling the fence into the lands. I drove up to the crest of a small koppie and, with binoculars, watched the antics and movements below. A big male baboon decided to perch on top of one of the poles of the boundary fence. Watching him from quite a long way off, I saw him fling his arms and topple over 

Geoff with the baboon showing a bandaged knee.

before I heard the shot. Unfortunately, he had fallen onto the wrong side of the fence. Theoretically, the centre of the river was the actual border between the park and the farm, so Geoff dashed over the fence to retrieve his trophy. However, in his excitement and hurry, he tripped on the top wire and took a nasty fall into the park side, almost on top of the baboon. He grabbed the carcass and threw it over, but while trying to stand and climb, he could not use his leg. I eventually helped him over, but he was in a lot of pain and his knee was swelling rapidly.

 

With a crêpe bandage and a few pain-killers from my first aid kit, I managed to get him into the vehicle and back to the house, where I cleaned and again bandaged the leg and knee, then rushed him to the doctor in town. The damage appeared to be more in the tendons below the knee, though there was also damage to the knee itself.

 

Eventually, when Geoff returned to Johannesburg, he had to undergo an operation and quite a bit of physiotherapy, resulting in many doctor’s bills. However, with his inimitable sense of humour, he always tells his friends and visitors that the baboon trophy on the wall was the most expensive animal he ever shot!

To order Campfire Thoughts & Reminiscences – the complete book with illustrations (US $15 excluding S&H), contact Andrew Meyer at andrewisikhova@icloud.com

Jason Stone: Inch By Inch, A Trophy Hunter of 25 Years

Feb 8, 2023 | Archive, News

A 67-inch kudu bull from Limpopo, South Africa.

Written by Richard Lendrum

 

Since record books started and inches measured, some believe this has been a curse on the hunting industry. For many, it is their way of distinguishing themselves, to prove something, be it for themselves as a massive achievement, a reward, demonstrating to their peers, or simply seeking acknowledgement by distinguishing themselves from the rest.

 

Like or not, respect it or not, it is part of our industry. And one African Dawn member has managed to deliver across a broad range of species to the envy and dislike of some, and the sheer admiration of others – particularly those inch-seeking international big-game hunters. After much time, on the anniversary of his 25 years in business, I finally managed to get Jason Stone, (older brother of Clinton and co-owner of Stone Hunting Safaris), to shed a little light on who is behind this professional hunter. A hunter who in the world of records and inches, seems to have delivered big time.

 

From way back when, for as far back as I can remember I was always fascinated with animals and coming up with tools to hunt them. It must have been my inner caveman or simply that hunting was just part of my DNA. It would be difficult to say that one single person inspired me to become a professional hunter. I grew up and was fortunate that all my early friends had similar interests to me. For example, one of our finest inventions was the blow pipe, and we made this from plastic PVC pipe. You would roll squares of shiny magazine paper into cones, put a nail through the center and sticky tape the nail to the cone so that the nail would not push back on impact. The cone would be cut off to size, for the diameter of the PVC pipe. We would hit the front of the nail flat with a hammer and with the angle grinder sharpen the point in the shape of an assegai. For front sights we would cut a khoki pen (felt-tip marker) in half and tape it to the front of the PVC pipe like a scope on a rifle. These blow pipes were seriously lethal and accounted for hundreds of white-eye birds and doves. One morning while walking to junior school we noticed some mighty fine racing pigeons in an aviary. I marched on up, put my blow pipe through the wire mesh and planted one. Unbeknown to me this bird belonged to my mom’s boss at the time. Boy, did we get into trouble for that episode. At one stage or another one of my friends always had a pellet gun available that had not been confiscated by the parents. So, we were always shooting at something.

My first 60-inch kudu bull taken some 25 plus years ago.

Zambia is known for big lion. This brute was no exception.

One of my most memorable hunts was a 21-day full bag hunt in an area called Ngarambe which is just to the south of the Selous Game Reserve in Tanzania. We had taken our lion / leopard and three grand old buffalo bulls early in the hunt but were struggling to find a good elephant bull. I was hoping to get the elephant as soon as possible so that I could go home early as my wife was pregnant and was due in the next few weeks. Every night when I got back to camp I would hook up the satellite phone to the Cruiser battery, point it to the East and call my wife to see how it was going. I was always relieved to hear that my daughter had not been born yet. A few days later, early in the morning as luck would have it, we bumped into a mighty fine elephant bull. I had previously hunted elephant with the same client, a very good guy and still one of my all-time favorite clients to this day. On the previous hunt we got right up on a good elephant bull at around 10 yards or so and our hunter tried a full-frontal shot, the only option available to us. His shot was a bit low. We were very close to the bull and the terrain was such that the only way the elephant could go was straight at us. While the elephant was regaining its composure, I noticed our hunter was a bit slow in firing his second barrel. Self-preservation kicked in and I shot the elephant at the same time as the client and down it went. He was not very impressed that I had shot. Fast forward to the elephant above. Our client made it very clear I was not to shoot unless we were all about to get trampled and then only if I was sure that I would die first. Our client gave the tracker his video camera to video the hunt. As we approached the elephant I gave the tracker my rifle and took the camera. I figured it would be better for me to video the hunt rather than even contemplate shooting our clients elephant again. We got to about 25 yards and I told our man to pop it on the shoulder. At the shot the elephant turned and came running at us at great speed. I remember putting down the camera, nice and gentle, so that I did not get into trouble for buggering up the camera. I got my rifle and as the bull passed us at about ten yards the hunter shot it again and down it went. All smiles. The camera was on record for the entire hunt and made for some great footage. When we got to camp I found out that my wife had had our daughter early that morning and I had missed it. Just about every single year from then on I have shot an elephant bull on or around my birthday or my daughter’s birthday which are two days apart. September is now a lucky elephant month for me.

 

In my career I have had a number of close encounters with dangerous game but, touch wood, have always been lucky enough to come out on top. In 2010 I was savagely mauled by a wounded lion, had 168 staples put in my leg to close all the holes and spent a month in hospital. In 2019 I was run over by a crazy buffalo cow in an unprovoked charge. I was not carrying my rifle that day. If there is one lesson you should learn it is always carry your own rifle in dangerous-game country.

The holy grail of Vaal Rhebuck both horns over 11 inches!

A huge Zambezi Sitatunga this one from Zambia. Both horns over 32 inches.

That time I got run over by the crazy buffalo cow in Zambia – 2019.

Most of our clientele is from the USA. America is without doubt the greatest country on the planet- they have the same sense of humor as us, they speak English, and most of them can shoot very straight. God bless America! You are very unlikely to have an American walk into your booth at convention and ask you to guide him / her on a hunt where they can shoot the smallest buffalo in Africa. Early on in my career I learnt that if we could consistently produce above-average trophies, we would be able to create a niche for ourselves in the safari industry that would create a demand for our services that would separate us from our competition. I have learnt not to worry about what the competition is doing but to focus on what we are doing and our business. When your competition is talking about you, it makes no difference if they say good things or bad things. When they are talking about you it’s because you are successful. Most people do not want to see you being successful. It’s only when your clientele starts speaking badly about you that you know you have real problems. Make sure you keep your clients happy and not the competition. We do not focus on what our competition is doing. It takes time out of our day that I would rather invest in our own business. I also figured out in my early days that the SCI record book was a great marketing tool. Hunters researching a hunt could see where the best place was to hunt and which outfitter to use. I always tried to get my clients to enter their trophies in the SCI record book, irrespective of the size of the trophy, to promote our brand and because SCI is a staunch supporter of conservation. The late great Cotton Gordon had the most record book entries in the SCI record book. When I was younger it was my goal to get more entries in the record book than he had. When someone opens up a record book and your name features dominantly, it is not going to hurt your business. This is some insight into my thinking and marketing strategy when I started out. As you get older your goals and focus change. I no longer have any desire to beat the number of entries Cotton Gordon has in the book. My focus is on finding the best areas to hunt and giving our clientele that next level hunting experience.

 

Before I qualified as a PH I was an apprentice hunter for the late Jack Rall. I guided a few of his clients before I got my PH license. I remember hunting a massive 33- or 34-inch blue wildebeest with one of his Hungarian clients in the Alldays area of South Africa. That is where it all started for me with my desire to find the biggest. On that same hunt a 60-inch kudu bull followed the wildebeest to the salt pit. For some reason, from then onwards, I have always been incredibly lucky when it comes to hunting and that has been one of my greatest assets throughout my career as a professional hunter. Don’t get me wrong I have always been that PH to leave camp first and get back last. Even today I still want to be the first PH out of camp. For me the great Gary Player sums it up the best – the harder you work the luckier you get!

 

Jason’s Trophy Gallery

Click the image to view it in full screen

The Masailand region is known for big leopard. This big leopard was from Talamai.

Perfectly symmetrical ivory from Tanzania.

A buffalo bull with exceptional 22-inch bosses. The biggest I have seen on a buffalo.

Another look at those massive bosses.

52-inch-plus gemsbok from the Northern Cape.

A big Zambian tusker.

A Zambian tusker.

A classical rhino bull with a front horn well over 33 inches.

Both of my children grew up in the outdoors, hunting. My son with a monster bushpig.

The current SCI number 1 Cape Bushbuck.

This Vaal Rhebuck was over 10 inches long with bases in excess of 3 inches making it the biggest Vaal Rhebuck in the SCI record book.

A steenbok taken by one of our bow hunters on one of our concessions in the OFS. This ram had horns over the 7-inch mark.

My best lesser kudu to date, both horns over 33 inches if I remember correctly.

That time I got run over by the crazy buffalo cow in Zambia – 2019.

Zambia is known for big lion. This brute was no exception.

Our aim has always been to produce above average trophies. This Zambezi Sitatunga from last season being no exception.

21-inch bushbuck from Limpopo. Not something you see every day.

My first 60-inch kudu bull taken some 25 plus years ago.

The biggest warthog I have ever seen. Both tusks well over 20 inches long. A number of people did not believe this pig was real.

Close up picture of ivory in the salted skull of a warthog.

The holy grail of Vaal Rhebuck both horns over 11 inches!

Proper Zambian lion.

34-inch-plus wide blue wildebeest bull. Both bases over 17 inches. I have never seen anything like it!

The 33-inch-plus blue wildebeest that kick started my career!

A closer look at 34-inch-plus blue wildebeest horns.

Another beast of a Zambian lion from the past hunting season.

The current SCI # 1 copper springbok. We currently have the SCI # 1 common / black and white springbok in the book.

A huge Zambezi Sitatunga, this one from Zambia. Both horns over 32. inches

64-inch kudu bull.

The only mountain nyala I know of to be taken with a crossbow.

The SCI # 1 white springbok with horns over 17 inches long-hunted by one of our clients in the OFS. Pictured is the legendary HW Gutter custodian of some of the best springbok genetics in South Africa.

19 6/8 the SCI # 1 common springbuck taken by Brian Bailey.

Leopard Hunt – Podcast

Feb 8, 2023 | Archive, News

Caption: Rudolph Stephan, Tim and Mary Sylvester.

By Richard Lendrum

 

I was talking with Tim and Mary Sylvester when they were out on their safari and somehow the conversation turned to recalling a previous hunt they had done – a leopard in Zimbabwe almost 7 years ago. I said hold it there, I want to try something – and got my recorder. It is a but rough, and my first, but I’m hoping that this is something that could work.

 

Listen to a short account of Tim’s leopard hunt…

 

Transcript

February 5th 2023, nearly 7 years later, over dinner at Afton, Tim recalled the experience as if it was yesterday. His South African PH Rudi Stephen Zimbabwean PH, Ian Rutledge and hound handler, the late Theuns Botha – all in pursuit of Africa’s greatest cat.

Ian was carrying a Ruger Redhawk, it’s a double action stainless steel gun, and a .44 magnum, and he had a side by side 20-gauge, which had buckshot. And then he had a pretty good size knife.

 

Rudolph had a pack on and he had a Remington 870 and he had it stuck through his pack, and we’re just walking through the grass. Earlier in the morning they found some tracks and we were on the other side of the preserve, so we go over there as fast as we possibly can, and it’s just barely light and they start tracking it, and they turned the dogs loose. The dogs take off, and we’re tracking it and we’re just meandering, going everywhere, just through the creek twice up, around here, down over there, and we were walking and walking, and it’s getting light out, and of course the trackers, they walk with their head down and their hands behind their back.

 

And just walk, and very carefully, and then they would stop once in a while and one would point at something and the other one would shake his head, and then they would keep going. It was really cool. So we’re walking along and it’s light out there, but maybe not even 7 o’clock, 6:40, 6:45.

 

Yeah, early.

 

Early. So we hear one dog barking, fairly close, but we can’t see him.

 

How many dogs were there in the pack?

I think there was… I don’t know, 8, 10 – quite a few dogs. It was a pretty good pack, but we just heard one dog barking. So we kept walking up through the grass, and the grass is not quite waist-high, it’s up to your thigh. And the trees are kind of just here and there. And so we hear this dog barking, so we’re walking in that direction because that’s the direction the trackers are going also. So we get up there and we come around this tree and there’s a leopard 20 yards away in the tree; and the dog isn’t excited, he’s just barking but it’s like he’s just barking to bark, and not like he’s excited.

 

Oh no, he’s just… he’s doing his job. I mean, no, you’d think he’d be more excited. And it caught us flatfoot, absolutely. I can remember saying a few words, and they weren’t very Christian. And Rudolph said, I only heard, put a round into my rifle, just (snaps fingers) like that. And Rudi turned and tugged the shotgun out of his pack, and I then lost track of Ian at that point, and so this leopard just… he sees us and he lets out this ungodly scream, just… I mean, if it doesn’t get to you, if it doesn’t scare them, nothing will – nothing will on this planet, will scare you like that. The scream! And he leaps out of the tree at the dog; and the dog, not his first rodeo, he steps aside, the leopard runs through the grass. Well, I said the grass is thigh-high…

 

Of course.

…we can’t see a damn thing. And so, I’ve got the rifle pointed right here, so if this leopard comes just directly at me, I’ve got a chance. If he comes from any other direction, I’m going to get… yeah, it’s going to be bad. And then suddenly, all of the dogs show up. Everybody else shows up. Everybody’s yelling, all the other dogs are barking like crazy and it’s absolute… it’s pandemonium. It’s crazy. Everybody’s gone wild. And the leopard goes up another tree and they said, ‘Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him!’ And I can’t get a good, clear line of sight on him where I can make a clean shot, because (sighs) what’s been impressed from years ago, back in the 70’s, reading Capstick is, you don’t want to wound the leopard. So I want to make a good shot. So, this leopard jumps out of that tree, and like I said, to me, all I can hear is screaming, barking and the cat growling, and it’s just gone crazy. ‘Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him!’ And I can’t shoot yet, can’t see, because he goes up the third tree and he’s about maybe 60 yards away. And I brought a Marlin 1895 model in, 45/70 which I customised because Rudi says it’s going to be close, you want to put a big hole in him and you want something that’s quick. So I had this short little 45/70. So the tracker passes me my 300. I can’t really get another good line on him. And Rudi looks at me and gives me this look that he is really kind of irritated with me, and he said, ‘Here!’ And he taps his hands three times,  taps on his shoulder, and I go up, and I put the rifle on his shoulder and the scope is on the leopard. Three seconds later, I pull the trigger and the leopard drops out stone dead, didn’t even flinch. And now… and it’s quiet. But everybody now was beating me on the back, telling me what a great shot it was, telling me I’m the biggest hero. And a couple of minutes later, I mean, earlier… I mean, ‘Shoot that!’ and everybody screaming at me. And now…

 

I’m the hero. And I’m shaking like crazy. I mean, I’m just shaking. I can do good at drama. Oh yes, I can do that well. And so, Rudi -when we shoot something that can kill us back – Rudi gives me a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but after… well, after a minute we were able, because of my shaking, we were able to get the cigarette lit. I smoked the cigarette in four drags. Just … (inhales). And they bring the trucks up, Rudi gives me a beer. By now it’s like 7:15 or something, and I’m spilling out the beer, but I’m drinking the beer, shaking. And everybody’s just picking up that this is the greatest day on earth. And then Theuns brings his truck up, or somebody brings it up for him, one of his guys, and he brings out this enormous flask of brandy, and they line up all these little cups, and we’re all going to toast the leopard. But Theuns is like me – he is shaking like a leaf. He can’t pour the brandy. So Rudi steps up, Rudi pours everybody a brandy, and we toast the leopard. And by that time, I’m starting to come back down to earth; I’m not in outer space anymore. But it was tremendous. It was wild. But when he was in that grass, you couldn’t see him – it was just…terrifying. Yeah. Just… you know, you’re there, and you’re there for a purpose, so you’re not going to run, you’re not going to run,  you know, (sighs) sit down and cry like a baby – you know what you have to do, but… yeah, it’s serious. Serious shit. So, yeah, we took the pictures, and it was a good day.

 

7 years later, Tim & Mary Sylvester are on another safari with Rudolph – this time in pursuit of interesting creatures like a honey badger and a few remaining members for Mary to finish the Tiny 10.

 

Classic and Contemporary African Hunting Literature

Feb 7, 2023 | Archive, News

Africa’s Most Dangerous

Kevin Robertson (Safari Press, 2007, 244 pages.)
Reviewed by Ken Bailey

 

Much of African hunting literature is of the “Me and Joe” variety, books chock-full of tales describing the hunting adventures of the author. On occasion, however, someone pens a well-researched “how-to” book that is intended to inform, rather than entertain. And on very rare occasions, that book is so thorough and well-written that it is destined to become a classic. Such if the case with Kevin Robertson’s Africa’s Most Dangerous – The Southern Buffalo (Syncerus cafer cafer.)

 

Kevin Robertson is a familiar name to anyone with more than a passing interest in contemporary African hunting, and his experiences as a veterinarian, PH, rancher, researcher and author make him uniquely qualified to make meaningful comment on virtually every aspect of it. Many will know him from his earlier books, among them The Perfect Shot and The Perfect Shot II, which should be required reading for all hunters before their first African safari.

 

Robertson’s long-held passion for buffalo originated when, as a veterinarian, he was active in controlling hoof and mouth disease as part of the Zimbabwean government’s interest in protecting the country’s beef exports to the European Union. This required considerable engagement with the disease’s host, the southern buffalo. Africa’s Most Dangerous is a compilation of all that Robertson learned about buffalo through the many phases of his professional life, and is the ultimate “how-to” guide for hunting these iconic animals.

 

As might be expected of someone with a scientific background, there’s not a lot of ambiguity here; Robertson states his opinions with the confidence of one who’s been there and done that; he knows whereof he speaks. He goes to great lengths to teach the reader about buffalo before he ever delves into discussion about hunting them—their ecology, distribution and anatomy are all covered in detail. Do you struggle differentiating cows from bulls, or evaluating trophy quality? You won’t after reading Robertson’s descriptions. Robertson has made a name for himself as an advocate for hunting old, mature bulls rather than succumbing to the appeal of shooting a wide, potentially high-scoring bull that yet to experience his prime breeding years. You’ll learn how to tell a past-his-prime bull from an up-and-comer, and why Robertson believes so passionately that we should target only the oldest.

 

As would be expected in a book about hunting buffalo, Robertson dedicates a lot of space to his recommendations for rifle, cartridge, bullet and optics choices. His cartridge evaluations, in particular, are supported by a detailed examination and listing of sectional density, KO values, recoil energy and more, once again revealing his reliance on science to support his opinion.

 

The chapter on shot placement is a must-read for every buffalo hunter and is supported by photos with drawings of skeletal and organ locations superimposed. Borrowing from his The Perfect Shot books, at a glance he reveals exactly where to aim to stop a charging buff, and where, precisely, to aim at buffalo standing at every conceivable angle. Bowhunters aren’t ignored here, either; he illustrates where to place your arrow for maximum effect.

 

Other insightful chapters deal with subjects as diverse as recommended accessories/clothes to pack, how to prepare both mentally and physically to hunt buffalo, and what to expect on a typical, or not so typical, day’s hunt. He also addresses the often contentious issue of if, when and how a PH should back-up a client, and how to handle your trophy to ensure it arrives home in pristine condition.

 

No book on buffalo would be complete without a section on what to expect and how to respond when you have a wounded buffalo to sort out, and Robertson doesn’t disappoint. While not underplaying the danger involved, his matter-of-fact recommendations and advice actually have a calming effect; anyone having to settle a wounded buffalo would do well to read this just before heading in to the thick stuff.

 

One of the wonderful qualities of Africa’s Most Dangerous is the absolutely superb selection of phots. There are lots of them, and they’ve clearly been purposefully selected to support the text; you won’t read anything that isn’t reinforced and explained with clear images.

 

The dangerous game animal that most hunters pursue first in Africa is the Cape buffalo. Some shoot only one or two before moving on to other dangerous game, while for others, their first buffalo leads to an addiction they can never shake. Robertson clearly has that bug, and he quotes no less than Robert Ruark when he states, “But such is his (the buffalo’s) fascination that, once you’ve hunted him, you are dissatisfied with other game, up to and including elephant.”

 

Whether dreaming of your first buffalo hunt, addicted to them, or somewhere in between, you owe it to yourself to read Africa’s Most Dangerous.

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The Baobab Buffalo

Feb 7, 2023 | Archive, News

Written by Kevin Cunningham

 

It is almost a cliché to say that hunting Cape Buffalo is special. For me it began, curiously enough, many years ago hunting whitewing dove in Mexico with Ralf. Ralf was a successful, greying guy who loved the hunting and fishing life, and who was fortunate enough to have safaried in Africa from the time he was twelve years old. After a hot day of shooting doves, he and I would sip icy margaritas and he would reminisce about hunts and the animals he had taken – hissing crocs, trumpeting elephants, roaring lions, hyenas, baboons, leopards, horned plains game of every sort, and Cape buffalo. To my youthful ears it sounded like high adventure and a test of personal courage. Ralf had been everywhere and stalked everything, but he always came back for buff because, he said, they live up to their reputation for exchanging human damage for a poorly placed shot, and for fighting to the end, especially when they knew who killed them!

 

Fast forward thirty years to a lion-colored grass airstrip in the Save Valley of Zimbabwe. The little Cessna bumped down onto the hard dirt and came to idle in the shade under a towering baobab tree. When the engine shut off, all I could hear was the sound of the wind blowing a dust devil down the runway. A Toyota pickup drove to the plane. The driver got out, a junior professional hunter, introduced himself and me to the trackers, then loaded my gear. We watched the plane lift off over the tree line and turn north. I looked at the red ground and crackling dry landscape of thornbush and tan-barked trees with new green leaves brought on by early November rains. The horizon in every direction seemed 100 miles away. There was no sign of man. A lone silhouette of an elephant lumbered across the far end of the airstrip casting a silent shadow before the setting sun. I was back in big buffalo country, and only the fates knew what would happen over the next ten days.

 

After zeroing my rifles, we arrived at Sango Conservancy. This is the famed reserve of the Pabst Brewing Company family. It is managed to the highest standards in terms of protecting and preserving wild African animals in their free-range habitat and in a sustainable manner that includes very limited hunting. The hunts they allow are under strict quota and are conducted only with select PHs. The money raised helps to support anti-poaching, wildlife studies, and the feeding and livelihood of the workers and their communities. Those funds represent only a portion of the total personal cost to the owners in their continuing and tireless efforts to preserve 150,000 acres (60,000 hectares) of pristine African habitat and its precious wildlife.

 

Ingwe Camp, mine for this hunt, is a private camp, so I had the place to myself except for staff and my PH who stayed in a thatched bungalow across the compound.  I was greeted by staff with a tray of iced melon juice and cookies and shown around. Boss Rob, my PH, would be back shortly as he was attending business at headquarters. I stowed my gear and headed to the bar for an anesthetic after the 34-hour trek from Texas to Zim via Doha, Qatar. I settled into a leather chair on the veranda, watching the last light of sunset filter over the veld, sipped my iconic South African drink – a double brandy and Coke – and relaxed in proper bwana fashion.

A truck ground to a halt and a door slammed. In strode my friend and PH Rob Lurie. I had met Rob two years before under unfortunate circumstances. My previous PH, Phil Smyth, had been killed by an elephant. Rob had stepped in along with other generous PHs to pick up Phil’s booked hunts for the benefit of Phil’s family, and so I had hunted the Senuko camp, about fifty kilometers down valley, with him the following year. We hit it off, and so when he called to offer me a hunt at Sango that another client had cancelled, I jumped at it.

 

Rob is head of the distinguished Zimbabwe Professional Guides Association. Though I have hunted with wonderful PHs from other parts of Africa I have been impressed with the professionalism that Zimbabwean PHs display as a result of their rigorous training and licensing program. Just ask any learner Zimbabwean PH what they have to go through to get a full license to escort clients into harm’s way. You would sooner sign up for Marine Corps boot camp and a couple of years in green hell than go the distance they go to get their ticket. Like Rob, the PHs I have had the privilege and honor to hunt with, are dedicated to preserving an ancient way of life. I got to share that life for the next ten days.

 

After a lovely dinner, more than enough Stellenbosch wine and catching up with Rob, I turned off my bedside lamp and sank into crisp sheets under a mosquito net. It was pitch dark. I listened to the trickle of the stream in the gully below and the chirping and calling of the night creatures. I thought of my rifles, going through a mental checklist – Dakota .416 Rigby bolt action with a new Swarovski Z8i 1.7-13×42 red dot scope for old eyes needing lots of light in often shadowy environments. For years my Z6i had served me well, but the improvements of technology over time enticed me into the new optics. They say in Africa, shoot the largest caliber you can shoot well. I chose the .416 Rigby as it is a legendary caliber for tough African dangerous game. I shot this rifle confidently and killed efficiently and humanely.  My other rifle on this hunt was a new, out-of-the box Hill Country Rifles custom .224 Valkyrie with a Z8i scope for smaller game. I had brought thirty rounds of ammo for each. For buffalo I prefer custom loads – 20 soft and 10 solids from Safari Arms with Swift A-Frame bullets – or whatever is next best available in the post-Covid market. Nothing against production ammo, but if I have the cash and order time, I want to know I have the best. For dangerous game, failure is not an option!

 

The morning knock-knock came at 4am along with a pot of coffee. An hour later, Rob and the team were waiting at first light with the truck.

 

Day one is always a wakeup call. This was real. I was jet-lagged. My shoes were stiff. I was not used to the new sling. I had conveniently forgotten the effect on my arms and shoulders of carrying what is a rather heavy rifle. That first walk of the morning was not like strolling to the shooting bench at home. My muscles were not in shape to follow much younger men all day. No taking a coffee break and chatting with a friend before going to lunch. A sip of water and let’s get on with it! That first day was meant to see how I walked in the bush, how I behaved, how I handled my rifle. By evening I was beat, but hopefully Rob could see that I was getting my muscle memory back, leaving my other life behind and getting mentally into the work at hand.

 Over the next few days we bundu-bashed. Rob and I were in the cab while our trackers and game scout were above us on the top rack and bench where they could see what we could not. Around us monolithic grey boulders stacked up into kopjes. We bundled warmly in the early mornings and sweated in the afternoons, heads on constant swivel for sign and animals. There were the occasional close calls with unhappy elephants, appearing and disappearing lions, menacing shadows moving through the trees, and crocs feasting like Jaws on giraffe legs from the one that I had shot for bait. We ambushed a pair of klipspringers, and the trophy ram dropped to the shot from the .224. With that and a well-placed shot from the .416 on that old bull giraffe the day before, I was feeling good on the gun.

 

Over several days, we crossed paths with buffalo herds that had always passed that morning or the night before. The Dagga Boys’ tracks we saw were too either old or not big enough. One morning we glassed a herd that was climbing a steep bank on an island in the middle of a river opposite us. Most of the herd had moved into heavy cover. There was a big Dagga at the rear. He even looked big through my binos at 400 meters. I watched the tick birds on his rump. He paused, turning a black-horned head to watch us. He lifted his chin, stared, then disappeared in the blink of an eye into a wall of leaves. I was not too keen about crossing the croc-filled river barefoot to take up a stalk on this guy. Fortunately, Rob said the island was too dangerous to hunt. In it were poachers’ snares that caught and wounded elephants, buffalo, lion and leopard. Bumping into predators while hunting wounded animals in those tight quarters or, even worse, meeting wounded animals themselves, could be considered a life-altering experience. For once I was pleased to be excluded from the git-go!

 

As we stood on that riverbank looking at Monster Island (my name for it), I looked behind and around us and noticed the trackers doing the same. We were standing in a tunnel of twenty-foot-high reeds and tangled vines, no different from on Monster Island. I was last in line, so I watched our rear, wondering what shooting at close range in that tangle would be like with a scoped rifle.

 

We crept back out. I began to relax when we got back to the truck until I looked at Rob as he hurriedly started the truck and revved the engine. He was staring hard at a young cow with calf that was barreling down the narrow lane which was to be our exit 40 meters ahead. She came ears flared, trunk held high, and trumpeting. Behind us was another group of clearly nervous head-swinging bulls. I envisioned jumping from the truck at the last second before the inevitable collision, but luckily the cow suddenly backed off for a moment to check on her baby hidden in the bush nearby. Rob wasted no time in scooting past her with spinning tires and throwing up a cloud of dust.  I looked right into her eyes through Rob’s window as we passed.

Over the next few days we bundu-bashed. Rob and I were in the cab while our trackers and game scout were above us on the top rack and bench where they could see what we could not. Around us monolithic grey boulders stacked up into kopjes. We bundled warmly in the early mornings and sweated in the afternoons, heads on constant swivel for sign and animals. There were the occasional close calls with unhappy elephants, appearing and disappearing lions, menacing shadows moving through the trees, and crocs feasting like Jaws on giraffe legs from the one that I had shot for bait. We ambushed a pair of klipspringers, and the trophy ram dropped to the shot from the .224. With that and a well-placed shot from the .416 on that old bull giraffe the day before, I was feeling good on the gun.

 

Over several days, we crossed paths with buffalo herds that had always passed that morning or the night before. The Dagga Boys’ tracks we saw were too either old or not big enough. One morning we glassed a herd that was climbing a steep bank on an island in the middle of a river opposite us. Most of the herd had moved into heavy cover. There was a big Dagga at the rear. He even looked big through my binos at 400 meters. I watched the tick birds on his rump. He paused, turning a black-horned head to watch us. He lifted his chin, stared, then disappeared in the blink of an eye into a wall of leaves. I was not too keen about crossing the croc-filled river barefoot to take up a stalk on this guy. Fortunately, Rob said the island was too dangerous to hunt. In it were poachers’ snares that caught and wounded elephants, buffalo, lion and leopard. Bumping into predators while hunting wounded animals in those tight quarters or, even worse, meeting wounded animals themselves, could be considered a life-altering experience. For once I was pleased to be excluded from the git-go!

 

As we stood on that riverbank looking at Monster Island (my name for it), I looked behind and around us and noticed the trackers doing the same. We were standing in a tunnel of twenty-foot-high reeds and tangled vines, no different from on Monster Island. I was last in line, so I watched our rear, wondering what shooting at close range in that tangle would be like with a scoped rifle.

 

We crept back out. I began to relax when we got back to the truck until I looked at Rob as he hurriedly started the truck and revved the engine. He was staring hard at a young cow with calf that was barreling down the narrow lane which was to be our exit 40 meters ahead. She came ears flared, trunk held high, and trumpeting. Behind us was another group of clearly nervous head-swinging bulls. I envisioned jumping from the truck at the last second before the inevitable collision, but luckily the cow suddenly backed off for a moment to check on her baby hidden in the bush nearby. Rob wasted no time in scooting past her with spinning tires and throwing up a cloud of dust.  I looked right into her eyes through Rob’s window as we passed.

 

I am in no way a professional hunter. I have read Capstick and Boddington and John Taylor and whatever else I could find about African hunting. This time I was hunting my sixth Cape buffalo. I have spent hours looking through binos, hunkered down in grass or behind a termite mound. I have sat around fires talking to PHs and other buffalo lovers about what makes a great trophy. Early on I thought “wide” was the way to go, and then “drop” became the object. I got my “wide” in the Eastern Cape of South Africa and was lucky to have it rank 165 of the many buffalo recorded as of July 2019 in the SCI records. Now, after seven years of chasing them, I only hunt Daggas. Old warriors with fighting scars on their faces and necks, lion claw streaks on their backs, chunks of their hocks torn out by chewing beasts, healed in thick masses. I want to see dropped horns down low to their ears and lots of grey mascara under drooping and wrinkled eyes. I search for a boss that looks like the burl of an ancient oak. I hunt for a “character.”  A helmet of broken horn and one eye would be perfect! Past breeding age, they wander alone or in twos or threes, no longer fighting for herd dominance or breeding rights; they fight to survive another day unprotected except for maybe a loyal mate nearby. I have developed an affinity for them, a kinship that perhaps comes with my advancing age, knowing that there are no hospices in the bush and that the end can come unmercifully slower than from a well-placed bullet. Rob knows what to look for. I trust him when we have stalked two bulls through a searing afternoon only for him to call me off the sticks at the last moment because neither of them is a “proper Dagga.” All I want to hear is a whisper: “He’s a shooter!”

 

And so around 4:30 in the afternoon on the sixth day of the hunt, I put my boots back on swollen feet, bent down to stretch an aching lower back, and fumbled with my shoe laces with hands and arms stiffened from toting the .416. I was definitely on the old man side of the equation.

 

A buffalo had attacked some camp staff not far from our compound the night before. The same buff had chased a man up a tree two days ago in the same area just down by the creek. Rob thought that the culprit might still be in the neighborhood, so we were back in the truck. Sure enough, we cut two Daggas’ tracks in the road not a mile from camp. Rob switched off the engine and we rolled to a stop. The tracks were fresh and big.

 

 As I stepped out of the truck, I put a round into my rifle’s chamber and felt my gut tighten.  I took two deep breaths, checked that I was on safety and fell in behind Rob and our lead tracker. What I like is that generally the stalk is a slow affair.  My legs are not what they used to be. Slow is good.  Making as little noise as possible I looked down, watching the heels of Rob’s boots as we angled down a forested hill towards the creek. I tried to step where he stepped and stop when he stopped. My heart picked up rpms as our progress got slower and more deliberate, until it was two or three steps, then stop and wait, a few more steps, stop and wait. Then we stopped still. Rob looked through his binos, peering around a tree trunk. He slowly turned and smiled at me.

 

“Two Daggas, and one looks like a shooter! We need to get closer.”

The lead tracker moved silently to a large boulder fifteen meters in front of us and slowly peered over the top. He froze. I could feel everyone’s tension rise. I concentrated on looking at Rob’s back in front of me, slowing my breathing to try to relax. Rob quicky moved forward and I followed close on. We reached the boulder. By hand signals the tracker told Rob that the companion buff had run away, but the older one was just on the other side of our boulder, perhaps twenty meters away and not seeing us because of the rock. However, the animal seemed to know something was afoot and was motionless. To our left at the far end of the rock was a small gully that opened into a hollow about four meters across. If the buff chose to go forward, he would emerge into that hollow to our left. In that case I would have a shot at him broadside from about 15 meters. Rob and I crept to that end of the rock and put up the sticks. Rob looked up to the tracker who by now was crouched about three meters above us on top of the rock, looking straight down at the buff just on the other side. The tracker’s hand fluttered.

 

“He is coming!” Rob whispered, this time clear urgency in his voice. “Get ready!”

 

I checked my safety to be sure it was at the half-on position. I gripped the forend of the Dakota firmly in the V of the sticks and made sure my power was on low setting. Looking through the reticle down into the narrow hollow I could see the spot where I imagined the bull would step out. I waited, but nothing happened. I slowed my breathing again and stared through my scope, trying to blink as little as possible. Another minute passed. Rob gestured to the tracker above who signaled back that the animal was just standing still again, listening, smelling, sensing. Just then the tracker changed his hand, pointing in the opposite direction. The buff had turned around and was now moving back down the alleyway from where he had come. Rob and I moved quickly, resetting the sticks on a level place at the end of the boulder where the buff had first been observed. We were about a meter above ground level, but still partially hidden by rock, looking down at the place the buff where should now come out. I again set up on the sticks and waited. Events after that took on a dreamlike, almost like slow motion, but still quickly.

 

The buff emerged into a grassy area. I was on the sticks, moving my red dot around deliberately to find his center mass. He was facing us head down, eating little shoots of brilliantly green grass. He was lit up black and gold by the rays of the setting sun still bright over our shoulders. He looked up in our direction then turned slightly to his left in a quartering position. Rob hissed, “Now! Right on the shoulder.”

 

I shot. The red dot and all around it exploded in my reticle. The buffalo lurched forward instantly and came at us. I jacked another round into the rifle and shot at his hindquarter as he blindly plowed within a few meters of us, passing by our rock. I shot again, this time a raking shot from behind at 12 meters. With that he turned back towards us, coming to a stop at six meters from my rifle muzzle. For the briefest moment he looked up directly at us then turned broadside. At this point my scope was worthless as far as aim, so I looked over it, pulled the rifle in tight to my shoulder and basically shot-gunned my last round into his side just aft of his shoulder. In my peripheral vision I could see Rob’s double at ready in case the buff leapt onto the rock at us, but my last shot had turned him away. He trotted up the hillside near us. At about thirty meters he stopped in the shadow of a massive baobab tree and just stood there, blowing a mist of red with each deep breath. I could hear Rob saying, “Reload.” As I did so, the beast began to sway but his staunch legs would not buckle.

 

“Again. Shoot again,” Rob said.

This time I took careful aim on the sticks and put the last one just behind the shoulder crease halfway up the chest. He did not even flinch. The great head rose. He looked up at the tree and lay down. Still tossing his horns at his unseen enemy he bellowed once, then again, and all went still.

 

It is said in Mashonaland that only great chiefs may be buried under a baobab tree. The greater the chief, I suppose, the greater the baobab. When it is my time there will be no baobab. But I will always carry with me the memory of this valiant old chief and his tree, a sad, but good thing.

 

Ralf would have understood.

Kevin is a lifelong hunter who resides with his two black Labrador dogs on his ranch in Hunt, Texas.

Hunting Lord Derby Eland in Cameroon with Mayo Oldiri

Feb 7, 2023 | Archive, Hunting Stories, News

On the fourth day hunting LD eland we picked up the tracks of two bulls at around 7am and followed them for about 2 hours. The droppings were shiny and moist, and we knew we were close. 

As we moved over a slight hill, I spotted the two bulls moving in front of us, diagonally. Due to thick cover, we couldn’t get in a shot, so we attempted to follow them, but as we reached the point where I had last seen them the wind changed, and as we followed them, we realized that they had caught wind of us and had run. 

Dejected, we continued following them for another two hours and eventually gave up as we saw that they were headed for the park boundary. We were under pressure as Adam had only two more days to hunt due to his obligations at the Super Bowl. 

We decided to take a rest during the midday heat and around 3pm decided to walk up the park boundary to see if there was any movement. After an hour, I saw some roan and then suddenly, a group of 10-12 eland bulls appeared and moved across our front. I pointed out a particular bull and Adam took his opportunity as the bull was on move. 

A single shot and the bull was down.

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