By Daryl Crimp

My Courteney boots puffed dust in the bushveld and left distinctive tracks, the solid rubber soles offering quiet tread— silent footsteps in the dirt. I’d learned the hard way that soles designed for comfort with tiny air bubbles injected in the rubber, amplify the sound of foot on grit, echo your approach, and spook prey.

Not that it mattered, because this particular waterbuck had the uncanny ability to hear the unheard and see the unseen and, once again, it vanished like an ace in a slick card trick. My PH Hennie and I had long since settled into a monotonous game of cat-and-mouse with this bull, and I despaired for an outcome in my favor.

“These big bulls,” Hennie whispered, “are super cunning – we just need to keep working this one until he makes a mistake.”

“Hopefully, before I die of old age,” I added.

We were four days into this safari, but the hunt for this particular animal had spanned three years. The area was renowned for good waterbuck sporting heavy-based horns with classic bell-shaped curves, so there was no reason for me to fixate on an individual bull, other than, sometimes it just gets personal.

Last year, I came close – oh so close – to taking this bull. 

I host safaris for Kiwi hunters from New Zealand and had a number of keen first time antipodeans on this hunt, including my young son Daniel. Another father and son were on the safari, so we hunted together.  This day, Rob and young Norm were after kudu, or impala, or warthog, or gemsbok… anything but waterbuck, and they had a good chance of success with two PHs and another four pairs of eyes scouting the veld.

Glassing for kudu.

Earlier in the safari, I’d spotted a good impala and asked Hennie to execute the stalk for Rob and Norm, knowing the animal was on both hunters’ wish list. Hennie is a master on the spoor and slipping through the thorns, so I was surprised when they returned an hour later empty handed.

It transpired that they had quickly found the feeding impala and were waiting for the ram to present for a shot, when Norm had suddenly tugged at his father’s shirt. I could just picture what happened…

“Dad, Dad, Dad,” he hissed while indicating to his left with bulging eyes.

“WHAAA…” Rob started but the words faltered.

The largest kudu bull Hennie had ever seen had stepped into the clearing, not more than five meters away, and was looking down at them almost with an air of indifference.  It was number one on Rob’s wish list, but… he just stood there gawping at it.  Hennie broke the cardinal PH rule and hissed a staccato, “shoot shoot shoot shoot shoot” to no avail.

“Crimpy, you could see my heart beating through my shirt – the bull was a monster!”

“I asked why he had not shot it and the response was the classic, “It was the first day of the safari and seemed too easy!”

“Well, two things are a given,” I said. “You will never see that bull again.”

“Nah,” replied Rob, “I know exactly where he lives.  What’s the second thing?”

“That bull is going to f@#* with your head!”

We never did see that kudu again! 

Crimpy enjoying fruits of baobab.

Next day, from the top of a kopje, Hennie spotted the waterbuck I wanted. Since my clients weren’t interested in this species, Daniel, Hennie, and I slipped off the rock and trotted like Bushmen out onto the veld.  The other PH, Deon, kept tabs on the bull through his binos, while Rob and Norm could watch the hunt unfold from above.

Hennie cut the spoor, slowed, and lit a cigarette. The hunt was on. Deon occasionally issued hand signals from above but they were superfluous because the ground whispered to Hennie. Here and there, using sign language, he indicated where the waterbuck had fed, walked, changed course and urinated. This is the drug of Africa, where time warps and you hunt in the shadow of your ancestors.

Hennie turned and winked at me, lifting his hand close to his face and drawing his thumb and index finger together. We were close. The air was electric. Charged with static. Then it exploded. BOOM!

We looked from one to the other, then back over our shoulders in disbelief. Hennie’s radio crackled.

“Rob’s just shot a huge waterbuck behind you,” Deon’s metallic voice punctuated the fullstop to our hunt. I was incredulous.

We backtracked to find Rob’s huge waterbuck, hoping that mine had not circled behind us and fallen to his shot. More excited radio chatter, as the others were eager for assessment of the bull.

Hennie finally looked down and muttered, “Well, it’s no Goliath.”

“More like a David,” I said, relieved my waterbuck was still running somewhere through the African twilight.

“Is it a monster?” Rob asked excitedly when they arrived.I was pondering a diplomatic reply, when darkness fell abruptly—as it does in the veld. Something coughed close by.

“What was that?” asked Rob.

“Leopard,” I replied. The bakkie was 300m away and that waterbuck suddenly looked enormous!

The following morning I was back with another set of hunters, none of whom was interested in waterbuck.  Hennie and I were hunting with Grant who had missed his dream kudu bull on the first day – big, heavy, with wide-V-shaped horns that would have stretched the tape beyond 55”. To give him credit, he was philosophical about his duff shot and proved to be a wonderful hunting companion.

Because waterbuck hadn’t made Grant’s shopping list, Hennie suggested I slip into hunting mode should the opportunity come.  Grant was happy with that.

Grant with a magnificent waterbuck bull.

As Hennie’s fingers smoothed the tape measure against a deeply rippled horn, it kept climbing and climbing – 32.5” to the tip. Grant was delighted. It was almost his seventy-second birthday, a great gift, and I was very satisfied for him, but there remained a score to settle.

However, my waterbuck continued to kick my butt for another two days with tantalizing glimpses, long standoffs behind thorn thickets, and tortuous stalks before disappearing as if in a sleight of hand. I suggested, ‘drop and roll’. Hennie grinned.

That morning we drove through the bull’s territory en route to kudu country. At my nod, Hennie dropped off the bakkie, and caught my rifle as I followed. Malibongwe kept driving until he was out of sight.

Hennie and I, covered in dust, crawled into the thorns. It was a short final stalk, just 80m at the end of three challenging years. The bull was staring off into the distance, oblivious of our presence. Once satisfied the bakkie had gone, the bull leisurely recommenced feeding. Its path transected the only shooting alley I had, a narrow gap in the thorns. Hennie timed it perfectly, giving a throaty cough that pulled the bull up dead center in open ground. It lifted its head, turned, and took one last look at the world…

I ran my hands over the beautiful, bell-shaped, heavy horns and reflected on a magnificent hunt. In the tradition of the San Bushmen, I plucked a tuft of hair from the tail and cast it to the wind to show respect to the animal and help it into the next realm.

The spirit of the waterbuck vanished like an ace in a slick card trick.

A shiver ran down my spine.

Crimpy’s waterbuck; note the heavy base and deep curl.

By Ken Moody

It was one of those long, tiring tracks all too common in buffalo hunting. The kind of track where you’re happy to have worn your most comfortable pair of boots and slept well the night before. You know it’s coming, it’s just a matter of when, but as the years accumulate on an old buffalo hunter’s body, it becomes a more daunting prospect each season. 

I woke to a brisk morning that day in July and was happy to be going on this hunt. We needed just one more buffalo, and this camp of seven buffalo hunters, would be complete. So far everything had gone well, with each bagging their bulls with single, clean shots, something a bit unprecedented given the disposition and invincible spirit of these beasts. Now, we were down to the last man (or should I say woman) standing.

Shay came to Africa with her grandfather, the lone female in a group of professional bourbon drinkers from Kentucky.  She presented a stark contrast to her older companions, most of whom couldn’t form a sentence without the use of one or more minor profanities. She was a young, fit huntress, possessing a keen wit and contagious sense of humor, and proved more than capable of going toe-to-toe with her boisterous compadres. Any fears I may have had at having her around the nightly campfire with these experienced jokesters were quickly alleviated that first night. She could hold her own. 

In the days leading up to her buffalo encounter, Shay had bagged a few nice plains-game specimens. A kudu bull and bushbuck along the Limpopo River, an impala, sable, wildebeest, warthog, and crocodile were resting in the salt. Now, we’d pursue the big prize, a Cape buffalo bull. The day before, I had accompanied one of my company PHs and his client as they bagged a superb 43” buffalo. Running with this bull was a tank of a buffalo, big and ornery, and unwilling to leave his fallen comrade to our recovery. Time and again we would attempt to approach the slain bull only to be rebuffed by the aggressive nature of this beast. Finally, he was driven off and as we admired the downed buffalo, I made note of the location and direction taken by his angry mate. If we could return at daylight and take his track, we might provide a special day for Shay. 

Around 4:30am we were up and making ready. Coffee and a hot breakfast were consumed followed by the loading of cooler boxes that saw us off and into the bush. It would take us around two hours to get to the point where we had left the buffalo, but as we were traversing an old two-track to our tracker’s camp, we found him, all alone and feeding along the edges of a clear cut. There was no mistaking the body size.    

We drove past the old warrior and continued a short way to a small campsite where we picked up our tracker and, not wanting to spook the buffalo, we ‘hotfooted’ it back down the two-track and slowed our pace once we approached the edges of the clear cut. Slowly, we crept up the edge of the old dirt road, straining our eyes for a glimpse of the bull. When we arrived in the general area of where we had spotted him, he was not there. Could he have been spooked by our driving by?   

We moved into the bush searching for his spoor. Suddenly, our tracker slowly raised his arm and pointed to a brush pile not far from us. Bingo! There he was. The old man had sauntered off a bit, preferring to finish his morning meal on the fresher grass on the other side of the clearing. PH Jannie moved forward and put up the shooting sticks. Shay secured her rifle while I took a position beside her, my double at the ready. The buffalo moved forward as he fed and made his way to an opening, presenting a decent shot. Shay took her sight picture, and when the word to shoot was given, squeezed off a shot that struck the bull in his shoulder.

hunter amid such chaos would be a liability. Now it would just be myself, Jannie, and our tracker.  Two big bores against a potentially dangerous buffalo. I’d put the odds at even.

We found the track, and the blood spoor was significant. Steady and bright, it led us into a dense thicket, our progress hampered by the “wait-a-minute” and tanglefoot. As they usually do, this wounded buffalo was taking us into the worst of it. After we had tracked a half mile or so, my hopes of finding the bull dead had diminished, replaced by the knowledge of what we were dealing with. Jannie and I became hyper alert. 

Deeper we traveled into the jungle of thicket, knowing that at any moment, a greatly irritated bovine might make us regret our chosen occupations. We moved cautiously, as the best time to track and kill a wounded buffalo is generally the first time you encounter him on the track. After he knows you’re on to him, he’ll increase the time and distance between himself and his pursuers. Onward we moved, the spoor easy to follow. The amount of blood on the ground, and its color, indicated to me a lung shot, but if only one lung were touched, we’d be in for a long day. 

After an hour of tracking, we came upon a small clearing within the darkness of tangle, and I heard a muffled sound of movement to our front and right. I raised my hand and pointed towards the sound, and as we carefully moved a bit further forward, rifles at the ready, we were met with an explosion of noise. It was our wounded bull. In a flash the beast crossed to our front and negotiated the little clearing before either Jannie, or I could get off a shot. We moved to where he had been standing and found a pool of blood. I shook my head as I knew this had been our best chance to recover the buffalo. Now, with his adrenaline up, he would move, and move fast.

Jannie and I spoke about the situation, and I told him that we must now press this buffalo. He wasn’t nearly as badly wounded as we had hoped and the longer we took on the track, the longer he had to rest and run again. We had to push him until he decided to stand his ground or charge so that we could drop him. With a quick sip of water, we were back to the track, searching for the decreasing amounts of blood among the tracks of a running buffalo. Six hours into the track we were still in pursuit, jumping the bull a few times every few miles but not able to connect with any lead. At about 1 pm I found a bit of high ground and cell signal, and reached out to one of our other PHs with whom our best tracker Hans was attached. I told him that we were five miles into the track (according to my health app) and that I needed Hans to join us for the remainder of the day. I also told him to bring food and lots of water.  The day was hot, and we were weary. 

Within the hour, Hans arrived with the required nourishment, and after consuming it we were back at it, following the track along a dry riverbed further into the bush. The addition of Hans increased our speed significantly. He was on that buffalo like a fresh tick on a tired dog. We pushed on, and in less than an hour, found the old bull in some scrub mopane on the near side of a hill. When he burst from his hiding spot, I sent a round his way as did Jannie. Given the density of the mopane and the “hail mary” aspect of the shots, neither of us felt as if we’d hit him. Once back on the track we confirmed that no new blood was present and presumed we’d missed the bull cleanly. This beast was a magician. We pressed on until dark, leaving the track as it led uphill about three or four miles from where we’d last jumped him. I checked my app again and it read 8.4 miles of tracking for the day. 

Back in camp I reorganized our hunt plan for the next day. I pulled one of our best PHs, Bradley, to come on track with us. Bradley had an ace up his sleeve that would prove invaluable, a little Jack Russell name Ruger. We also had Bradley’s tracker who increased our odds greatly. 

At daylight the next morning, we hit the track with speed. Our trackers, along with Ruger, led the way, closing the distance between us and our prize. We were moving swiftly and eventually found where the buffalo had bedded. Blood was pooled in the bed and had seeped into the dirt and surrounding grass.  We continued the pursuit. Up one hill and down another, the buffalo plodded along, never stopping for a rest. Five more hours into it, and as we crossed an open flat, we heard the unmistakable barking of a dog at bay. Ruger had him.

We all ran now to converge on the bay, and as we came upon the little thicket which held both dog and beast, the buffalo dashed from cover with Ruger glued to his scent. Yap! Yap! yap! came the constant barrage of yelps and snarls as our fierce furry companion stayed true to his breed.  In minutes the huge bull put a half mile between us, the only gauge of his location being the sounds emitted from the dog.  Jogging as best I could to catch up to the scene, I was just behind Bradley and Jannie as their first shots rang out, anchoring the old warrior to the ground. As he was struggling to regain his feet, I sent two shots from my .470 into his scarred body, ending the two-day battle we’d had in getting that bull. A final health app tally showed 12 miles of tracking from initial to final shot. 

We had earned this buffalo.

By Robi Datattreya

In the ultra-runner world there is the belief that humans evolved into striding bipeds that excel at long-distance running in hot conditions because we needed those skills for outrunning antelopes – the so-called persistence hunting. Losing our fur and developing the ability to sweat from all over the body, allows us to cool our bodies in hot conditions. Antelopes are faster but cannot sweat all over, so the belief is that humans can outrun antelopes over long distances and in hot conditions.

As an ultra-runner I finished the Marathon des Sables in the Moroccan desert and knew how to run long distances in the heat. As a hunter I was intrigued by persistence hunting and how it was done. In my research I only found one short BBC documentary about the persistence hunt of San Bushmen (with a voice-over of David Attenborough). But it still remained a mystery how this persistence hunt was done.

In the academic literature, the assumption of persistence hunting as the way of hunting for the hunters/gatherers in the Stone Age is generally accepted. However no proof could be found of the persistence-hunting theory of our hunters/gathers ancestors. I could not find any other first-hand reports.

Enquiries with hunting lodges in southern Africa did not result in more information. Most outfitters did not respond to my enquiry about persistence hunting. The just ignored my email, while others said they had never heard about persistence hunting and did not believe it could be done. Asking San bushmen, the feedback was, “Yes it is possible, we used to do it.” When asking how and where, the discussion ended with, “We do not do it any more, you need to talk to the villagers deeper in the bush.” It became an obsession with me. Was persistence hunting hype or a myth, a lost skill or a hoax.

Phillip Hennings of the Khomas Highland hunting lodge, known for sustainable hunting had never done it, but was open to test the hypothesis. He and his most experienced professional hunter Ralf Liedkte were willing to accept the challenge, and preparations began. The assumption was that it would take 10km before we could find an animal, and we had to follow the tracks. We had to push it for 30km in the heat before it would get exhausted. The first 10km of the push would be the hardest part, when animals are fresh and much faster. After 10km we would probably get regular sight of the animal. Two bushmen would assist in tracking. When the animal got tired and we got regular sight of it, the ultra-runner – me – would be launched to push much harder and exhaust the animal.

As the ultra-runner/hunter, I started preparing for a 160km ultra-run over four days at temperatures between 30 and 40°C, with a 5kg backpack with water, food and equipment, more or less comparable with the Marathon des Sables.

For the challenge we chose sandy grounds for easier tracking, with bush not too thick for better sighting. The best time of the year was the rainy season, the Namibian summer. The rain would flush away the older tracks and the summer would bring the heat. Wild dogs that are persistent hunters in catching antelope, have the highest success rate during warm periods, according to research.

Depicted in rock paintings, the Stone Age hunter/gatherers hunted with spears. Therefore, my weapon should be the spear. A spear is not defined in Namibian hunting law, but after some number crunching we proved that the energy of a spear was higher than that of an arrow, which was allowed. The African antelopes are also known for their toughness and for fighting till the end, and can become very dangerous when they are wounded. The hunter/gatherers would know this – but I had no idea how wounded antelopes would behave. We decided to bring not only a spear, but also a hand gun for safety, powerful enough for a short-distance shot.

We could go for a big animal like the eland with a relatively small body surface area compared with body weight, or for a small animal with a relatively large surface that could lose heat. From research we could not find which was preferable. However, heavy animals leave better tracks to follow than light ones, so we decided to start tracking an eland which can weigh up to 1,000kg. Although the eland does not have as thick a skin as, for instance, an oryx, it will get very nasty when wounded. We hoped the soft sand in the rainy season would wear out the heavy animal quickly.

Every day began at 6:00 am, driving into the field to find eland or their tracks. If there was rain, no animal could be seen – they were all hidden in the bush and did not move. Even fresh tracks were flushed away. When the rain cleared it was Africa at its best – clean air, green leaves, flowers and the overwhelming smell of nature, all this on the red, damp, soft sand, like a beach at low tide. This new sand was ideal for following tracks. When we found a track, the two trackers and I started walking along it, and I got a crash course on tracking. Based on the droppings of the eland, we could estimate how long ago they passed and if we were closing in or not.

When we got sight of the animals, I as the ultra-runner was launched and started running, following the track with the 5kg backpack and a bushman spear. My confidence increased quickly over the first few kilometers as I could easily follow and keep running. The group of five bulls was smart. While following the tracks I suddenly ran into human footprints next to the fresh eland tracks. A second look made clear these were my own footprints – the elands had just made a full circle to confuse their predator. However, based on sightings and droppings, I could see I was closing in. I felt that the finish line of the ultra-marathon was getting closer, that it was a matter of time before the exhausted elands would give up.

Then the animals crossed a hill with stony ground, full of thick bush with sharp thorns. The stony ground made it very difficult to follow the track. My crash course on tracking brought me to beginner level and did not cover following tracks on stony ground. I had to wait for the bushman and the professional hunter to lead me over the hill and through the bush. Where they were dancing between the thorns, I was tearing my shirt and skin. On the sandy ground on the other side of the hill we could see the eland had taken a rest before taking the lead again. It was not only an ultra-run over an unknown distance, but also with an unknown number of stages.

After pushing the eland for some time again, they tired and I could spot them on a regular basis. They reached the fence and decided to climb a stony steep hill along the fence and lose the ultra-runner/hunter. The hill was full of lose stones and they kicked down many stones, which made a lot of noise. This time I could follow the noise instead of tracks. At the top of the hill, four eland moved to the left. Apparently the fifth one was exhausted and decided to go back down the hill along the fence, right towards me. I hid behind a bush waiting for the animal to come. It saw me earlier than I expected, and I froze for a second before throwing the spear. The result was that the eland jumped, fell through the fence and ran. I had managed to exhaust it, but could not finish the hunt successfully.

On the last day we decided to change plans. Instead of pushing the eland bulls on high alert with five pairs of eyes and ears, we decided we would go for a single old wildebeest bull, impressive with terrific horns. Wildebeest have their own territory, and his was in a more open area. After two and a half hours of chasing him, we were closing in quickly. From the marks in the sand we could see he often lay down under the trees. Suddenly he stopped, and at 75 meters away he was looking at us. Would he charge or run? I pulled the revolver from my backpack in case of a charge, but fortunately he turned and ran. From then on we got him in sight every five to 10 minutes at 50- to 100-meter distances. We got the spears ready in case we could get a chance. It was like finally approaching the finish line of the ultra-run, just before cut-off time.

Then the tracks of the wildebeest merged with the tracks of a herd of at least a 100 eland. Even for the very experienced bushmen it took quite some time to find where the bull had gone. When we found the tracks, the wildebeest had joined three other wildebeest that probably came with the eland herd. It was impossible to distinguish the exhausted bull from the three fresh wildebeest based on tracks. Three tired people – us – had no chance to chase a fresh wildebeest before sundown. As a result we gave up and asked to be picked up.

In the stunning African savanna it was by far the best ultra I have ever run. It was like the Berkley Marathon – you only have an indication when it starts, but you don’t know for sure until it actually does! The start is when you are launched at the first sighting of the animal. The route is its tracks. It is a challenge. You lose the tracks once in a while. You can run into herds of 150 springbok that spread and let you pass. When they jump, it is as if they fly over the bushes. You notice graceful giraffes nibbling leaves from tree tops. You see oryx, impala, kudu, rhino, elephant, and many other animals. You not know how far the persistence-hunt ultra will be. When you can follow the route and run fast, you exhaust the animal in probably half a marathon distance (21km). If you run slowly or lose the track, the distance will be at least a full marathon (42km) over soft sand – if you finish at all!

On the Namibian plains, at a height of 1,500m, I ran a total of 120km over four days and did not finish. After this we were convinced that persistence hunting is a lost skill!