Chris and Bob from Montana have hunted with me on many occasions and we’ve always done pretty well as a team. They are the nicest people, so when Chris contacted me for a possible late season double buffalo and plains-game hunt, “of course, no problem,” I said. Having hunted many buffalo together over the years and always taken very good old bulls, the “monster buff” had always eluded us. However this has never been the focus of a safari. Chris is a guy who enjoys the hunt for what it is, and is more interested in how a particular animal is hunted rather than what it measures – one of the reasons we have always had stress-free and successful safaris.
December is not typically a prime hunting month in Zimbabwe, as often the rains would have begun, the bush starts to thicken, and rivers start flowing, making access to some areas difficult or impossible. But at the same time it is a time of year that is so beautiful. Animals start having their young, flowers are in bloom, there is new growth of leaves, and sometimes there are spectacular electrical thunderstorms. Chris and Bob were well aware that we could spend a lot of time getting wet or unstuck from the mud, but whatever the circumstances, we would still have a lot of fun.
Humani in the Save Valley Conservancy owned by the Whittall family is one of the most beautiful places I’ve had the pleasure of guiding in, an area of riverine bush along the Turgwe and Save Rivers, mopane woodlands, malala palm forests and many kopjes. The abundance and quality of game is incredible. You can expect to see close to a thousand head of game a day, including black and white rhino, elephant, wild dogs, lion, leopard, buffalo and, of course, all the various types of plains game.
When I arrived in camp, I was told that a really big buffalo had been seen the previous day in a herd of about 100 animals. The description sounded really good, even if taking the information with a pinch of salt. A few days later I decided to go to the area where this bull had been seen, and found fresh sign of a herd literally a mile or so from where the buff had been spotted. Excited and full of anticipation we got ready, me with ammo belt, binoculars, shooting sticks in one hand and my rifle in the other. Chris and Bob were prepared for a long morning, with Chris’s weapon of choice a .416 Remington fitted with a Swarovski scope.
Chris, Bob, Mudini, Ishmael and National Parks Ranger with Chris’s magnificent buffalo
Mudini, an exceptional tracker was in front and on tracks. Following a herd of buffalo of this size was pretty easy for someone of Mudini’s talent and it wasn’t too long before we heard the first sounds of a buffalo grunt and mooing in the distance. “Sound advice” as I like to call it. Making sure the wind was in our favor we took a big loop around the herd and positioned ourselves in among some rocks at a slightly elevated angle, expecting the herd of buffalo to casually and slowly graze past us. It was the right spot for ambush, as front of the herd started to slowly make its way towards us. Man, the suspense was quite something as the front of the herd passed us at no more than 40 yards, completely unaware of our presence! A couple of good bulls passed. No sign of the “monster.” Surely this is the same herd I asked myself. I thought we were going to have him, but alas he was not in this herd. Disappointing.
We were making our way back to the closest road when we bumped a bachelor group of bulls. We did not actually see any of them but knew they were all bulls just by the size of the tracks. Mudini reckoned there were five. We gave it 10 minutes before deciding to follow them. After roughly 30 minutes on the tracks Mudini suddenly stopped, crouched and pointed ahead. He had spotted movement. Swish of a tail is all he had seen. Lifting my 10x42s Swarovskis, and looking into the thick, green cover, I could only make out two bulls and neither of them was what we wanted. Trying to get a different angle to lay eyes on the others made me to give my position away, and with a loud snort from one of the bulls, the group thundered off. We continued to follow, but it was obvious they knew we were behind them as they kept running off. I called off our pursuit to give them time to settle again and we headed back to camp for lunch and a rest.
A while later we were back to where we had left the tracks, and after roughly half an hour Mudini told us to wait. He needed to backtrack a bit to make 100% sure that we were still on the same tracks, as at this point there had been sign of a herd that had moved through the area, and we wanted to stick to the Dagga Boy spoor, so working this out needed some meticulous and sharp tracking skills. Bob, Chris and I stood on a well-used game trail while Mudini did his thing.
Author and PH Thierry Labat with the “monster” buffalo bull
We were having a quiet chat when something caught my eye. It was a buffalo bull, its head down, slowly walking directly towards us on the game trail we were on. It was less than 40yds away and without having to look through my binoculars I knew this was what we had been looking for. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I set the shooting sticks up, told Chris to get onto them and just wait as the bull kept getting closer and closer, completely oblivious to our presence. At roughly 25 yards the bull must have sensed something. It stopped and looked up at us exposing his whole chest and giving us an absolutely beautiful view of his horns. The mass, shape, width and drop were everything any buffalo hunter could dream of!
The silence was shattered by Chris’s .416. It was a solid hit in the centre of the chest. The bull bucked and his nose almost hit the ground at the impact of the bullet. After the shot we all kind of stared at each other in disbelief of what had just happened. A few moments later Mudini came back to where we were standing with a look of surprise on his face. As a joke we told him we’d shot at an eland. You should’ve seen his look of disappointment! A short follow-up, and again the look on Mudini’s face when he realised by the tracks that it was not an eland we’d shot. But the best expression on his face was when he laid eyes on the bull that had succumbed to the shot. What a sight!
After much backslapping and congratulations, reality sank in, and we had to acknowledge that we were just in the right place at the right time. I mean what were the chances? If it’s meant to be it will be, with a bit of effort of course. Chris had finally bagged himself a “monster” bull. A 45” bull with a beautiful shape and serious bosses. Que seras!
BIO
Thierry Labat of Thierry Labat Safaris is a freelance, multiple award-winning professional hunter who customizes safaris for clients all over Africa to include Zimbabwe, Cameroon, Uganda, Mozambique and Mauritius. Contact him directly on phthierrylabat@gmail.com or through his website: www.thierrylabat.com for any enquiries relating to hunting safaris in above mentioned countries.
We started to hunting the Savannah again in January and actually it was only July that we finished our forest season – with the same (and in some cases, better) level of success as always. We saw to it that our areas were not abandoned during the pandemic. And although fewer hunters than normal, all of our usual PHs were guiding. However, where we could, we deployed them to different areas in order that everyone could at least get some work during the season.
Having fewer hunters gave us more time to give attention into the important areas that in busier times sometimes get less attention. Renovating camps, and for some, even moving the entire camp to brand new areas. Opening roads, exploring remote areas that we have not hunted and establishing new salt points. All in the interest of future success. So, while a stop in the hunters in 2020, we managed to set the foundation for this year. The result was very positive as it helped us prepare really well. Friends desperate to get traveling came to help. They were tired of being “prisoners” at home.
The cancellation of the hunting shows, which coincides with our main savannah season, also gave us the opportunity, especially to my father and I, to travel to more of the savannah areas than we have in the past. We could also dedicate more time (to our staff, the authorities, and to the areas and camps. It is always a challenge because while it would be great to have PHs at the shows, when they are at the shows, talking with potential clients, they can’t be in the savannah hunting with existing clients.
A negative aspect of the pandemic was the shortage of food and this meant more poaching – which needed more anti-poaching from ourselves. We hired team leader Greyling Van der Merwe a young enthusiastic ex-military South African from the French Foreign Legion who is now overseeing the anti-poaching. He could combine the French-Cameroon style of our local staff with the South African and Zimbabwean/Tanzanian style of our PHs. Poaching is not a quick battle – but rather a long war. We are already starting to appreciate the changes in our areas and I’m sure we will notice more from his work next season.
So, in summary, we took a positive approach from this pandemic and from the trophies you see – the areas, the camps, the staff – we have all delivered – and for the past year’s clients – we say thank you.
Book edited by Craig T. Boddington and Peter Flack (Safari Press, 2004, 606 pages); Review by Ken Bailey
When James Mellon’s book African Hunter was published in 1975, it was hailed immediately as a classic, a thorough and contemporary guide to hunting Africa. But, in Mellon’s own words from 2003, “My book is no longer relevant to conditions in today’s Africa.”
Enter Craig Boddington and Peter Flack, two well-respected hunters and writers. They took up the challenge and compiled what is undoubtedly the most comprehensive book dedicated to hunting Africa in the 21st century. African Hunter II builds on what Mellon started and created what Mellon suggested will be, “the standing work in its field for decades to come.”
The 600-page book is an engaging amalgam of encyclopedia, guidebook and captivating treasury of hunting tales from across all walks of Africa. Twenty-four countries are featured; for each, the editors provide a summary of the hunting regions, the game animals available, and a brief overview of the history, geography, climate and basic national facts and economic statistics. The primary species hunted in each country are covered in reasonable detail, providing hunters considering a safari some inside knowledge that will help in their planning. Clear, simple and beautifully-created maps accompany each country chapter. Once the “facts” have been covered for each country, readers are treated to some fine contemporary magazine-style writing, compelling tales of hunting in the region, some previously published, but all written by accomplished hunter/writers. In fact, if you had no interest whatever in the “guide” portions of the book, you could spend many rewarding evenings just soaking in the many well-crafted tales of African safari hunting.
There are a few add-on chapters designed to assist both the first-timer and the safari veteran alike. As might be expected with Boddington at the helm, included is a thorough overview of rifle/cartridge combinations. Other chapters provide guidance for booking your safari and what medical considerations you should be thinking about before you go. And from cover to cover, this book is well-saturated with wonderful photography of the game, the people and the places.
By their very nature all guidebooks have a shelf life, and this is no exception. Some of what was reflective of the African safari world in 2004 may not be exactly the same today. Notwithstanding that, it’s still a very relevant overview today, and the sheer volume of information about hunting in Africa makes this a treasure that will last a long time. In fact, when they eventually take away all my stuff and put me in that home, this is likely to be the one book I keep at my bedside.
Hunters Heart Taxidermy founder and CEO Ruan Viljoen is an avid hunter and conservationist with a passion for securing the sustainability of hunting in South Africa. Ruan has been a professional in the industry for many years, hunting his first African Buffalo at the young age of 13, and growing up admiring his father’s impressive collection of over 66 trophies.
It is because of this extensive background in the hunting industry that we appreciate and understand the significance of expressing each client’s memories with our custom craftsmanship, and why we focus so greatly on delivering a superb customer experience.
How many years have you been in the business?
The team has combined experience of 37 years. Hunters Heart Taxidermy is a relative new entity and brand that we are very excited about.
What are your favorite mounts & why?
Custom mounts, as this gives me an opportunity to be creative and to give the client a unique, one-of-a-kind trophy.
What are your specialty areas that you have in the business?
We specialize in custom mounting which gives us a distinct advantage when creating one-of-a-kind trophies for our client. As my artist statement explains, my work is utterly incomprehensible and is therefore full of deep significance. We do not rely on standard forms, we resize and sculp each form to fit the animal’s natural anatomy to the size of the skin received. Attention to detail, by a very strict Quality Control Department, on muscle definition, hide texture, eye expression, veins and pose to be anatomically correct. When you need Africa alive, you need a Hunters Heart signature.
Current processes offered:
Pick up & collect trophies: Yes (free, all over South Africa for International clients)
Maximum distance offered to collect trophies: all over South Africa
Own tanning facilities: Yes
Do you buy in forms or sculpt your own or both: Sculpt and Alter own forms
Delivery time (approximate):
Dip and Pack: 3 months after payment was received
European mounts: 3-6 months
Shoulder mounts: 8-11 months
Full mounts: 8-11 months
General Comments
The conservation of our wildlife resources, and of responsible hunting in our region is imperative to sustaining the legacy of our community. As a conservation-centred company, we endeavour to establish a total value chain in the community where the income generated from hunting practices, directly or indirectly, can be traced and measured. We therefore ensure that no part of an animal goes to waste: unutilised meat feeds the community, and skins are transformed into unique bags and other sellable products by local entrepreneurs. Every hunter contributes to this ideology and to the survival of the industry, capturing the Heart of Hunting.
Consider two statements you could hear from your potential outfitter:
Our area has the conditions to produce large kudu; and
Our clients shot three kudu, over 55 inches last year.
The first encourages thoughts on how to find them and the enjoyment of the hunt: the second focuses more on collection than enjoyment and could lead to speculation on whether there are any left when three were taken so recently.
There is so much ‘telling’ in this world. Some of us have had enough. Our governments have told us too much in the last two years and by all accounts, this may not change.
I got into the industry when I was quite young as I had worked for a furrier when I was just a boy. I had always been interested in taxidermied animals, and first started when I used a mail order from the back of a hunting magazine for a booklet on taxidermy. It was quite accurate though I think a little tough to understand for someone not trained in taxidermy. However, the illustrations and the tools they used for tanning were correct.
Just as I was getting ready to go to college, I worked for a famous local taxidermist, Louis Paul Jonas, from the American Museum. He had a studio north of us, about an hour away, and they did very simple work. They didn’t do any advertising, but their archives and what they had there was everything and more than you could ever imagine – like a museum studio.
Jonas died while in his 40s, and his clients were dispersed. Then I got a very famous Austrian gunsmith who dropped off a chamois for me to work on, and this was just as I was starting to work at Jonas’s former commercial studio in Mount Vernon, New York, down in the city. The studio was orinally the Tiffany glass factory before it moved to Long Island, so the place had a lot of history. The Austrian said if I wanted to really learn taxidermy, I needed to work for a place in a museum studio. We didn’t know each other, but he’s still a big friend of mine, hard to believe, 30 years later.
I went down there for a job interview and looked around. There was some archival stuff there, up to the roof – a lot of businesses had been there for 50 years or 60 years. There there old collections of work to be refurbished, and stock. They were overflowing with James Mellon’s trophies, that famous author who wrote African Hunter. There was amazing sculpture work and things from the original museums. The big elephant head that was there was probably one of the first reproductions. It looked like fibreglass, but made of papier maché and it was signed by all three Jonas brothers. It was was just so amazing. I never really realised taxidermy even went to those levels.
The person who interviewed me for the job at Jonas’s studios in New York, formerly Louis Paul’s commercial studio, was Steve Horn. Once I walked in the door, I was 100% sure that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, and it’s not too many times in your life you’re that clear about anything. He made me call back there seven times to come get that job. I laughed because he said to me, “Well, what do you think you’re worth?” At the time I was 20, finishing my third year of college. I told him I had worked for a fur buyer when I was a kid. I did piece work for him, so by 12 years’ old l was trained in skinning animals using a beaming knife. I was probably making $10 an hour every day and it was an erratic schedule. I put in a lot of hours, and if necessary had to work on Christmas Day. It was fine, because that was my job, even as a young boy.
So when Steve Horn said, “Well what do you think you’re worth?” I said, “Well, I don’t know – I’m just sure this is what I want to do.”
He said that someone had just left and there was an opening for the shop. It wasn’t really as an apprentice, but Steve said, “You’ll learn a lot, you can work with these other taxidermists.” I was paid $4.10 an hour. I had to drive an hour and 40 minutes to work every day. So every week I wouldn’t really even take a pay cheque, I would just buy materials because I was doing taxidermy then, so I would buy pastes and have tanning done and things like that. But I worked there for years and I learnt a lot. I met some good, interesting people, and then as I progressed, I searched out other people in the industry, people that were connected to places that were very good in certain facets of taxidermy, like African work or doing cats. I would go work for them for free and then come back and I would retrain my men and change our material. So I did that probably three or four times in my life before I was 30.
At one point we were hired to work on Cabela’s projects and there was a pretty famous taxidermist who was handling those jobs. I had a tremendous amount of inventory that I had purchased over the years, and I kind of stepped into this strange job from this eccentric guy who wanted to build a Cabela’s type store, right in-between the two Cabela’s stores in West Virginia. They were going public, so they were making a big splash. We do all North American taxidermy, but when we got an opportunity to actually work for Cabela’s, they hired me to do exclusively African work.
Of course, African work is always the hardest with the highest level of detail, and I was really fortunate, because that’s when I met Wayne. They had sent their agents to collect skins and they made some deals with some guys in South Africa, game ranchers. They said, “Oh, we need kudus and this and this and this,” and they gave a laundry list. But the problem was, the first two times the skins came back, which is what they handed me, they were average-sized animals. The problem was, they wanted record-book-size horns which could be made as reproductions, but the skins were too small.
So I told him I had the inventory covered: “Why don’t you let me just supply the inventory, supply the grasses, the African birds, all the skins. I’ll do the reproduction horns so we have them from record-book-size animals. I’ll handle this for you, you don’t have any problem.” They agreed.
That helped me. Through those years I was able to do almost all African work for Cabela’s. I did a few other things for that Pennsylvania store, but they didn’t want to have one person handling everything. Africa was my thing. And then it also helped me to go to Africa and collect animals and spend a month over there with Wayne. He liked what we were getting, mostly skins, and I got the experience of hunting and vacation, and kept my own horns and skulls, and we used reproduction record-book ones on the animals in the bigger mounts in the stores. And then after that we did a lot of regular client African work, as well as North American work. On one occasion I was at Safari Club and had a big glass case with African birds in it, all the stuff that you see in a bird scene. I had maybe 15 birds in a case and a man walkedup to the case and said “Wow! I need those for my museum. Are those for sale?” I said, sure.
“How many do you have?”
“Oh, about 250.”
“I’ll take them all,” he said, shook my hand and said, “I’m Johnny Morris.” And that was the beginning of our relationship and he hired us for the African exhibits for him, and I think we did just short of 300 life-size animals for that museum. There were a lot of different parts of it that would take some expertise – not just doing it, but having the right brokers to bring these trophies in from outside that had been sitting in Africa for a long time. But we were able to get all that stuff done, as well as do some reproduction animals for him that were impossible to find, and do some restoration work on some things that were very complicated. Anyway, so it’s the African work and it’s what we do mostly.
Favorite animal? Almost everybody says cats because they’re complicated, and we absolutely have done lots of them. For me personally, my honest answer is, I don’t really have anything I would say is a favorite, but I like high detail and I like craftsmanship and natural positions on things, so I could say cats. But I don’t, because they’re probably the focal point in taxidermy. We’re not really doing any elephants or any lions, so that would have to mean leopards.
I think even though we’ve been fortunate enough to work on Cabela’s African displays and Johnny Morris’s African museum, and people with world-famous sheep and mountain scapes, we still do lots of normal work for people as far as African safaris and small safaris are concerned. We enjoy working with people when they’re new and when they start their trophy rooms and they start that journey of hunting of a lifetime. You start somewhere and start small.
And then we end up re-doing their trophy rooms, and we usually work for these people for most of their lives – and that’s true.
An admitted novice big game hunter, Robert Ruark went on an African safari for the first time ostensibly on medical orders; his doctor advised that a year’s rest would serve him well and Ruark decided that recommendation would be the impetus to fulfilling a long held dream of hunting Africa. So in the early 1950s, accompanied by his wife, Virginia, he embarked on a two-month safari across what is now Kenya and Tanzania. The tales of their exploits are captured in Horn of the Hunter.
Ruark booked his safari with the Legendary Ker and Downey Safaris, who assigned a young PH, Harry Selby, then 25, to guide their hunt. Horn of the Hunter would not only bring Ruark to newfound prominence as a writer, but also made a celebrity of Selby, who was booked solid for years to come following the release of Ruark’s book.
Horn of the Hunter is much more than just another tale of hunting Africa’s fabled big game, although there are plenty of descriptive sections detailing encounters with lions, elephants, Cape buffalo, leopards, rhinoceros, kudu, and more. What sets Ruark’s writing apart from the pack, however, is his ability to capture the feel and spirit of a safari. He had the ability, and a willingness, to reveal his innermost thoughts while camping and hunting across remote eastern Africa. He details what safari life is like in a truthful and insightful manner that has been captured in few other places within the realm of African hunting literature. His frustrations, fears, anxieties, pride, and elation take turns coming to the fore, and the reader rides along on his roller coaster of emotions.
Horn of the Hunter should be required reading for everybody before they go on their first safari. Sure, times have changed, and you’ll not likely be travelling cross-country in a beaten up old truck, putting up and taking down camps, as you hunt for weeks on end. What hasn’t changed, however, are the emotions you’ll experience, the highs and the lows, the triumphs and the tragedies. After all, it’s those emotions, as much as the game, that make us want to return to Africa again and again.
It is 4 o´clock this morning when my alarm clock jolts me out of my sleep, my dreams, and makes me aware to get up, take a shower, and slip into my Sniper Africa Camo clothes. Outside it is still dark, quite and peaceful when I close the door of my nice and cosy room.
The old Landy
We have reached the end of August and I am luckily back to Africa, staying on a wonderful family-owned farm called Okapunja in Northern Namibia, close to the Etosha National Park. Around the house, under the lapa, I meet Gustav, my Professional Hunter and a real good guy. After a quick coffee and some homemade cookies, we are heading out into the bush in this old almost indestructible Land Rover.
The windshield is folded down so we can feel the fresh morning breeze on our faces and smell the nature around us although we smell more the unburned fuel from the old “Landy”. We park the reliable old-timer under a camelthorn tree before we walk the last three-quarters of a mile to our blind through the darkish savanna.
Gorgeous rosy faced lovebirds and masked weaver birds are the morning messengers with their chirps in the bushes around our blind welcoming the rising morning sun. Like the sunsets, the sunrises are always wonderful and especially how immediately the upcoming warmth makes you feel more comfortable. With the light, the first animal visitors – helmeted guinea fowls and doves – show up at the little waterhole.
It is around 6:20 a.m. when all of a sudden the bunch of fowls and other birds run and fly away in a deuce of a stir. What rocked the boat? Two black-backed jackals (canis mesomelas) seem to appear from nowhere, heading straight to the waterhole. What an amazing surprise. I am not only awake now but also really excited. The jackals behave also excited and skittish when they come closer to the waterhole. The younger and smaller one is nudging and teasing his fellow when they arrive at the water whereas the bigger jackal is looking in our direction, checking if everything is all right.
Gustav and I are both dead quiet and still in our blind. I have my loyal and faithful Mathews LX bow in one hand and the Gold Tip Lazer carbon arrow in the other hand, and through the mesh of the blind I stare at 22 meters (24 yards) that seprate us. Gustav is also standing deadly silent behind the video camera focused the jackals. The big jackal, annoyed with his younger companion, bares his teeth and barks at him. This short distraction gives me the opportunity to quickly nock my arrow, lift up my bow, and pull it back to full draw. For a moment, the “wild dogs of the African savanna” stand still now at the waterhole and both drop their heads to drink.
Our termite blind
This is my one and only chance to put the sight on the vitals of the big male in front. Fortunately, the younger is not standing behind or in front of him and the line of fire is clear when I release the arrow for its deadly mission. The arrow, with the Silverflame 125 grain broadhead, penetrates completely the body of the animal over the left front leg and the jackal jumps up immediately. In three, four, five wild turns, he tumbles around to the right before he expires within seconds, only 10 yards away from where I shot him. No long suffering. The young jackal is completely irritated about what happened and runs around his dead friend twice before he scampers into the bush. We wait a couple of minutes before I sneak out of the blind to pick up the jackal and look for the arrow, which we finally found 70 meters behind the shooting spot. What an experience and unexpected start of the day.
It is two days later when I sit this time with Rudy, the other PH on the farm, in the same blind at about the same time in the early morning. The scene is almost identical to my previous visit. This time the younger, smaller rooijakkal visits the waterhole. He creeps out of the thick bushes to the southeast, moving slightly nervously in a quick pace as he approachs the waterhole. Cautiously he checks the area before he lowering his head for a drink. Once again, the distance is about 22 meters (24 yards) and the jackal is standing a bit quartering towards us.
The spot on the vitals is small but feasible. The jackal is still having a sip when I draw my bow at a snail´s pace and focus on the aiming spot. Slowly my index finger pushes the release and I let the arrow go. It hits him hard, exactly, and penetrates entirely. Again, the animal swirls around to find out what hit him before he dropped dead within five seconds and five yards distance.
Rudy was astonished how quickly and cleanly this happens with bow and arrow. What an amazing awesome morning again and what a lucky hunter.
Always good hunting, Waidmannsheil and Alles van die Beste.
My two jackal trophies
Frank
Equipment Bow: Mathews LX 70# Arrow: Gold Tip Lazer Broadhead: German Kinetics Silverflame Optics: Zeiss Victory Binocular & Bushnell Rangefinder Release: Scott Camo: Sniper Africa
Bio: German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting, which he has practised for more than 22 years. Although he’s bowhunted in several countries, he’s become addicted to hunting in Africa since his first safari in 2004. Frank is a mechanical engineer and risk manager in the automotive industry.
The dust swirled in the midday heat of the Zambezi Valley, as we lay motionless behind a small outcrop of black rock that reflected its heat towards us. Shade was sparse apart from a clump of green about 15 meters ahead.
This was directly in line of the two Dagga Boys bedded down in some jesse 40 meters further. Just a small patch of black and a flick of an ear gave them away.
The day had started with a cup of freshly brewed coffee hot off the campfire. The staff were jovial as they loaded the Cruiser with Cokes, a couple of beers for the trip home later that evening, and a whole lot of water. Our ‘scoff box’ was filled with sandwiches and biltong, apples and some crisps – a five-star meal for the field. The shrill screech of a barred owlet broke the pre-dawn silence as we sat enjoying the cool dark morning. My client and good friend had hunted several times with me over the years, and we knew after yesterday’s trek in the hot Zimbabwean sun that today might not be different.
The drive from camp to our chosen area for the day was uneventful in the dark, with the headlights occasionally picking up the darting gleam of a springhare’s eyes as he hopped across the road. About five kilometers from camp we bumped into a young hyena as he casually trotted up the road towards the skinning shed. Hyena are a common menace around camp, attracted by the smell from the boneyard, and often stir up feelings of fear among the staff.
We began to make out the looming hills of the Zambezi escarpment, and a light breeze stirred the leaves of the mopane trees, but steep ravines, hills and a myriad of gullies leading into Lake Kariba turn the wind into a living thing. Mike (not his real name) had pushed himself to the limit over the last several days: long sessions on the tracks of groups of bulls, terrible winds, and one group of irate elephant cows that made us expose our position while on a closing stalk on some buff all made us pay the price, and Mike’s feet were no exception. Large blisters had formed on his left heel. Moleskin and double socks were helping for now, but another one of those days would mean possible complications and an inability to walk long enough to get into position for a shot.
A tap on the roof indicated that Steve, my trusty tracker and good friend of many years had seen something. We stopped and walked quietly towards the waiting crew who were excitedly pointing at a large deep imprint in the mud of a small wallow just off the dirt track.
“Nyathi,” Steven whispered, shaking his ash bag. Small hand gestures, and subdued excited chatter by the staff was all we heard as we slowly walked back to the vehicle to prepare ourselves for the hunt.
We huddled around the vehicle waiting for the darkness to lift enough to see. As the first rays hit, shadows shifted and the bush came alive with the hum of insects, the cooing of doves and distant roar of a lion. I was filled with the joy of doing something I love, thankful for being fortunate to experience the beauty Africa has to offer.
A small whistle alerted me to the whereabouts of my trackers. Steven has mastered the art of mimicking small birds, and we often communicated like this while on the hunt. Steven in the lead, followed by myself and then Mike, with the rest a few meters behind us. Heading west, we picked up freshly imprinted sign behind some soup plate-sized tracks of Dagga Boys a couple of hundred meters further on.
Mike was carrying a .416 loaded with 400-grain ammunition. His initial shot would be a soft, followed by solids if necessary. This is my preferred method when hunting Dagga Boys. I was using a .470 double. Given to me by General Norman Schwarzkopf while hunting together in Northern Botswana in the late nineties, this rifle has a special place in my heart. I have carried it ever since and it has saved my life on a few occasions.
There were two bulls, both huge-bodied buffalo judging by the tracks. It also meant four eyes and four ears, and having hunted this portion of the Zambezi Valley for many years that meant potentially wise old warriors, veterans of many failed stalks. I was sure that the human smell was imprinted in their DNA, and a mere whiff on swirling winds would mean a long day playing cat and mouse.
We had been walking slowly through several small patches of jesse bush when we came to an opening on the side of a low-lying hill. As is common, there is often a lot of seepage into these drainage areas creating, luscious patches of green grass. The tracks led through the grass, leaving freshly chewed snippets of fodder, obvious signs that the buff spent some time here feeding. Cautiously we glassed the thicker brush on either side and ahead, hoping for a glimpse of black among the grey. The wind was good and, being early, the dew made things quiet. The tracks led along an elephant path through a large thicket towards a pan that I had frequented on my last safari. Knowing the area well, I knew the pan was about two kilometers away, secretly nestled deep within some cathedral mopane. There was no road into this portion, and the area was untouched. A yellow-billed hornbill flew close by, hopping down in front of us, catching insects we disturbed from the grass.
Gradually the bush became louder with the sounds of birds, indicating we were getting close to water. Slowing our pace and staying close together, we crept forward until we could see the glimmer of water through the trees. Sweat fogged my lenses. Kneeling, we peered through the fallen trees and branches, we slowly made our way closer until were we at the edge of the waterhole. We picked up the tracks that led around the water and saw noticed that the bulls had ran through the water. Was it the wind? Had they see us? Heard us?
Then Steve pointed to a neat imprint from a lioness. She must have been what we heard early that morning from the truck. A curse under my breath made Mike laugh a little as he noticed the disgust on my face… “Bloody lions,” I said, “we found them first!”
The trackers had perked up a little, walking a little more carefully while sending cautious glances towards the greenery. We followed a good 500 meters and saw that the buff had settled to quick trot, still knocking over small shrubs and showing no sign of calming. We continued for another kilometer till the tracks turned into the hills and slowed to a walk. Beads of sweat were forming on our brows as the sun hit our backs, and a few annoying mopane bees started gathering around our eyes and ears. Glassing up the steep side of the hill, we had a fairly good view of the ridge as well as a few hundred meters to each side. There was only one sure route up and the buff had taken it. A wide ngwasha or elephant path wound its way up the hill, through fallen boulders and across steep gullies formed by many years of torrential rain.
Shouldering our packs we pushed upwards. Every step gave us wonderful views of the escarpment and the river that carved its way through sandstone cliffs to finally spill into Lake Kariba. With each step I tried to picture the terrain ahead. I had hunted this certain range for several years and had some idea of possible springs and decent bedding areas for cranky old buff. Nearing the ridge, we stopped for a breather and took a swig of cool water. Chatting quietly to the crew, we all agreed that the bulls were heading to a steep ravine between two hills, a common resting area for them as we had often found remnants of their dung. If my memory served me right, they had chosen an extremely difficult area for us to approach.
Large hills and gullies made midday winds a nightmare; steep rocky slopes with minimal cover made a stealthy stalk impossible; we needed luck and lot of it. The trick was a combination of stealth and speed. If we took too long, the heat would build up, winds would become fickle, and the buffalo restless. Too fast, and we risked spooking them if they saw us first – odds were definitely in their favor.
We stopped, crouched, and motioned for the rest to do the same. Both Steven and I had heard a sound – ox-peckers – a sure sign that we were close. We scanned the horizon and picked up a few buffalo ahead. They disappeared into the tree line about 300 meters in front. Game on! From this point forward, odds were slightly better as we potentially had a direction and idea of where they were. A short group discussion, and we carefully took positions and started the slow approach to where they could be resting. It was 10 a.m. and the sun was fierce, humidity was high and sweat drenched us. Steven’s back behind his water pack was soaking and my hand felt clammy against the comforting grip of my double.
Meter by meter we crept forward, coming to a stop every time we heard a noise, a rustle or if we had an opening through which we could glass ahead. The tracks led down the side of a ravine through some fallen black rocks that looked exactly like bedded-down buff. The bulls were walking slowly and dragging their hooves – the warmth and heat making them drowsy. They would sleep well, especially after a night of feeding and the fading of adrenalin from their encounter with the lioness.
How wrong could I have been!
I firmly believe that most good trackers that have spent time doing what they love have a sixth sense, and Steven was no exception. His uncanny ability to read the signs and his acute knowledge of the area enabled him to almost pinpoint where an animal would be at a certain time of the day. He froze, slowly crouched down beside the tracks and pointed ahead. Moving to the side and slightly right as he has done on countless hunts, Steven gave me room to scan ahead.
The jumble of fallen branches was enough to hide a fully-grown elephant bull, the intertwined limbs of the ‘shaving-brush combretum’ formed an almost impenetrable wall. Glassing from left to right in a slow arc, I slowly adjusted my binos to be able to see through the wall of green and into the dark shadows behind. A kudu barked in the valley below, and the shrill calls of a few ox-peckers ahead alerted me to the general direction of the buffalo, and I turned slowly around and peered intently towards the fading sounds of these “policemen.”
Mopane bees… It felt like thousands of the annoying little buggers were trying to get into both my ears and eyes. Glancing back, I noticed that I was not the only one bothered, as I saw Mike had the same issue, except one had made its way into his left eye and secreted a fluid that was making it water, temporarily blinding him. Steven took a bottle of water and flushed it out as best he could. A few minutes later we were back on track and with each step, the sound of silence grew as birds and animals alike found shade in which to escape the intense heat.
As I trained my binoculars at a certain discolored spot ahead, my eyes and mind played tricks on me – whatever it was, it was motionless, perhaps a rock, a buttress of roots or a fallen tree. Minutes ticked by and just as I was about to look elsewhere, a small movement made me hit the brakes. I stared fixedlythrough the brilliant optics of my 10×42 binos for what seemed like forever, when I saw it again… An ever so slight movement. My eyes adjusted, I tweaked the optics and wham!
The gentle flick of an ear!
The bulls were bedded down about 40 meters ahead and currently everything was in our favor. The wind was good, cover was ample where we lay motionless and, most importantly, we had seen them first. My heart beat a little faster and I could feel a small rush of adrenalin. They say this is a fight or flight reaction, and we were definitely in it for the fight.
No matter how many times I find myself in a similar position, the feeling always surfaces – it’s one of the reasons we do what we do. It’s not about shooting off a truck, sitting at a waterhole or in a machan. I am talking about the freedom of hunting large, unspoilt areas of the Dark Continent, about pitting oneself against a worthy adversary in his own back yard.
Judging from their position, the buff would begin to feel the heat on their huge, mud-caked bodies and might shift slightly, giving us a better opportunity for a shot or a better approach, or a glimpse at their horns. Old and solid, nothing beats a buffalo trophy than age.
Time went by and still we sat. Bees buzzed incessantly around our moist eyes. I felt dehydrated and my tongue felt thick. I was sure Mike felt the same and slowly pushed a half-empty bottle of tepid water towards him, careful not to make sudden movements or any noise. Startled ox peckers flew up as one of the bulls pushed his heavy body to his feet, and the small patch of black tuned into a behemoth of muscle as he stepped briefly into a small opening and further into the thick safety of cover.
Mike had his rifle ready, shouldered with the safety off, and knelt down. He preferred at that range to shoot freehand. I had hunted enough with him to know his abilities and was very comfortable with his skills. The fleeting glimpse did not allow enough time for an accurate trophy judgment from me or for a shot by Mike. But the silent message between us simply translated as “amazing!”
Then the other buff decided to join him and we heard some small twigs snap as he rose from his position. We were not so lucky this time as this bull walked directly away from us giving us a look at his tail or what was left of it. A small stump, sheared off about a foot from his anus was all that remained, totally healed and almost comical as it moved from side to side in a futile attempt to brush the biting flies from his flanks. He too disappeared from sight, leaving us huddled in the half-shade calculating our next move. Effort, our water bearer and assistant tracker to Steven, whispered in excitement:
“They are both big, bwana, especially the first one, did you see how fat he was… so much meat.” I was amused by his simple idea of a trophy – horns were great but they did not taste nice!
Steve threw an angry glace at Effort and mouthed something in Tonga that made Effort bite his lip and step back slightly. Pecking order is common on the hunting team, and every now and then Steven needed to show who was boss.
The wind was still in our favor as we moved back a little to the shade of a pod mahogany tree. These trees have an iridescent green hue at this time of the year and are one of the only large tree species with fresh new leaves. After some cool water to drink we were ready to go. A few words to Mike about the condition of his blister and a thumbs-up from him was a huge relief to us all. The sky was cloudless except for distant balls of puffy white over the escarpment towards the lake, and the only movement was the slow tumbling of a bateleur eagle in the thermals.
It was now 11.30 and we had been motionless for some time. To our left and down a steep embankment, was a major river, currently, wide, sandy and mostly dry. A few small pools had formed in some of the rocky portions and in areas where the water during the rainy season had cut away at the bank to form deep hollows. In some there were still had small fish in the oxygen-depleted muddy water, and were devoured by gathering maribou storks and fish eagles. To our right was an open patch of sparse woodland, dotted with outcrops of jagged black rock. About seven kilometers behind us was the vehicle. Ahead lay our quarry, two battle-worn buffalo, each armed with memories of previous encounters, cunning, and potentially deadly.
Standing into a semi-crouch, trying hard to keep our heads down, we grouped together and took our positions. Steven gripped the shooting sticks, shouldered his batonga axe and edged forward. Stepping in each other’s footprints to lesson any noise, we crouched, crawled and slid slowly forward, stopping every few meters to check ahead.
The acrid buffalo smell was strong. A fresh pile of light green dung with hundreds of tiny flies showed where one of them had bedded down.
Piles of dry dung littered the sandy patches below the low overhanging branches of the jesse. With lots of fresh water that trickled out from the rocks below to form a natural pool, the area was a wonderful cover.
The hair on the back of my neck pricked up as a cool breeze hit my sweat-drenched collar. The wind was shifting as was typical in the valley during the heat of the day, and the odds would be shortly in favor of our quarry. We were safe for now as our scent would be carried over them… once down in their domain, this might not be the case. Drying our hands on our shorts, we firmed our grip on our rifles, checked sights and safeties for any irregularities, and moved forward as one, doubled over like “U” bolts, ducking and weaving our way slowly through the branches and vines.
Steven knelt. We followed suit and my right knee clicked loudly. It sounded like a gunshot to me, but no one looked my way. I stared ahead. In a mass of vegetation, with grey and black shadows and rocks, 15 meters ahead lay a solid mound of black, facing away, with large worn horns splayed out on either side of his head. A torn ear and heavily scarred back was the result of a narrow encounter with his arch-enemy and the reason he had lost his tail. Slightly ahead lay his companion, another huge-bodied, almost hairless old bull.
Both were well beyond prime.
Although I had a pretty decent view of the buffalo to the right, it would have to be taken while he was lying down. Mike had branches blocking his sight picture, and could not move without the bull seeing him – we wanted close, but perhaps this was too close! Finding ourselves between a rock and a hard place, we attempted to flatten ourselves further into the ground while the trackers behind blended into the foliage.
The bull on the left shifted forward a little and went out of sight. The remaining bull rocked himself to his feet and vanished, leaving us slightly relieved. We decided to walk down a small game path towards the water. It took us over 20 minutes to reach the pool to have a quick drink.
The rustling of bushes in front quickly alerted us. I could see the crew on edge, every single muscle frozen. We could see the movement of branches and leaves about 40 meters ahead, moving violently. A crack of a branch echoed through the valley and silence was all that remained.
Minutes ticked by, not a soul moved.
The faint sound of a hoof clicking on a rock gave their position away – they were on the move, heading down towards the scrub mopane below.
Standing up and stretching, I attempted to get the bloodflow back to my left leg which had gone numb, checked my sights and safety, and motioned for Steve to pick up the fresh tracks. Disturbed mud and water still flowed into the pool left by one of the bulls that had taken a moment to wallow in some rather inviting locally produced ‘sunscreen’. Buffalo, especially the old bulls, love to cover their bodies with soothing mud, which gives them protection from biting insects. When the mud dries it eventually peels off, taking with it the majority of the remaining hair, leaving them almost bald and more grey than black.
Picking our way through fallen boulders and piled-up debris, we inched ahead to where the cliffs on either side were steep and impassable. The base of the cliffs were covered with the white markings of a thousand carmine bee eaters, the beautiful stunningly red-colored birds that live in colonies and nest in holes created in steep river banks, but at this time of the year there none as they had already left this part of Zimbabwe.
As we carefully rounded the bend in the river we saw a small herd of elephant cows and calves making their way through the mopane towards the pool of water below.
The arrival of the elephant posed a small problem as they lay directly in our path, and if they saw, heard or smelt us, they would gather together for protection and perhaps send out a few warning trumpets, and our hunt would be over for the day.
We backtracked out of sight and around the river bend to give them space, and headed up the tangled slope and away from the river and the elephant, using our hands for leverage and helping each other through difficult sections. We finally cleared the crest, and peering over the edge we could see the elephant slightly to our left.
About 200 meters ahead we focused our attention at the confluence of two. Scanning left and right, we could see no movement and had to assume that our quarry was there. We had a couple of options: each came with its own set of problems.
We could carry on in the heat of the day, attempt an approach and hope for a clear shot in the thick stuff, or we could wait it out for the cool of the evening when they would get up and feed.
Option 1 gave them the edge as they were safely and securely bedded down, ears, eyes and nostrils on high alert. We had seen both bulls, so trophy judgment was not on our minds.
Option 2 came with a whole set of new complications. They could bed down till it was too dark to shoot, they could feed into a position with a poor approach, or, if left too late, we would be out here after dark trying to make our way back to the truck through areas that were difficult enough to negotiate during daylight.
We quickly ran through the pros and cons of both options and agreed unanimously that it was now or never.
Making a small semi-circle to keep cover and to refrain from exposing ourselves on the ridge, we kept low and slightly behind a rocky outcrop. The sun was past its zenith and making its slow arc westwards to the distant blue of the faraway hills. Motioning for the rest of the crew to remain on the ridge and out of sight, I removed a radio from the pack and handed it to Effort in case we were separated during the final approach. I took a swig of water and followed Steve.
The three of us moved as one down the sparsely covered hillside, our eyes wary for any resting francolin or other game animals that could reveal our position, and alert the bulls.
Reaching the lower portion of the ridge, where the open bush met the thickness of the riverine vegetation, we stopped to listen. The raucous call of a grey lourie, the “go-away bird” echoed around us as he flew from his vantage point to another position.
Still, silence all around us. Perhaps they had moved further on…
It was 3.45 and as the heat lessened, birds started their cacophony. This would be to our advantage.
Moving forward on hands and knees we snaked our way into the undergrowth, brushing away dry leaves, extra careful not to allow any dirt to soil our barrels. Head down, I almost bumped headfirst into Steve. He had come to a halt, pointing to a dark mass. Once he was certain I had identified what he had seen, he moved beside Mike and myself, allowing us ample room for any possible action.
The buffalo was so close we could hear him breathe; binoculars were only necessary to get the correct position of his body, and to make sure we had a clear shot devoid of branches that could deflect the first round. He was standing, facing slightly away, not the most ideal angle given that a follow-up shot by Mike or myself would be impossible with the cover he had anchored himself in.
Mike shouldered his rifle, his right thumb eased the safety into fire position, and he hunched forward to absorb the recoil. It felt as if time had frozen. “Shoot,” I whispered.
I could see the white of his knuckles as he squeezed the grip on his rifle and carefully moved his index finger behind the trigger guard, to a slow, almost methodical pressure on the trigger… and baam!
The recoil knocked Mike back off his haunches, but this did not stop him ejecting the spent cartridge and closing the bolt face on another round, and at the same time I saw the strike of the bullet as dust flew up off the bull’s flank.Despite his bulk, the bull did not show that he had been hit; on the contrary, he spun around and crashed through the brush following the thundering sounds of his partner as if nothing had happened. The crashing continued for a short while and then all was quiet. Dust rose up from the bush and slowly drifted towards us, slowly dissipating
I asked, as was customary how Mike felt about his shot. “Good,” he said, “real good.”
We smoked a cigarette as we looked for sign, when a shrill whistle had us move towards Steve where he pointed to a spot of blood on a leaf. Both of us were loaded with solids, ideal for this type of situation.
Ahead and about three feet or so up from the ground, smeared on the trunk of a young tree was blood, still sticky. We picked up the spoor of the running bulls, careful to watch out for sign of one of them faltering or changing direction. After 100 meters they were still together but slowing down. We found more blood, not large quantities given that the quartering away shot would possibly not have exited. A little further on, and the wounded bull veered left, on a completely different angle to his buddy and slowed down to a trot. We stopped briefly to make sure he had not looped around again, but found that they had definitely separated and we were not far behind.
Now, knowing that we had one target, we could relax a little in the knowledge that the buffalo we would see at the end of these tracks was Mike’s bull.
Cautious, totally focused on what lay ahead, we had time on our hands so no need to rush. Steven continually turned his head left and right, up and down, glancing into the brush ahead to pick up movement or color.
Then the brush seemed to explode ahead of us as a mass of angry muscle burst through, sending dust and sticks flying in all directions. Steve was gone as Mike and I stood shoulder to shoulder, shocked at the ferocity and speed of the charge. Coming towards us, head held high, specks of blood, saliva and fury spewed from the bull’s widened nostrils. Eyes white and wide open, he was like a black avalanche of hatred from years of evading hunters, lions, poachers and drought.
He barged his way through the bush across gullies, taking down small saplings, and finally came to a sudden stop as his body weakened. Then he veered left and circled slightly back to rest and listen.
In front of him and very close he heard them, a breaking twig, and the sound of something unnatural brush against a branch. Then he saw them. Hatred swelled inside him, the pain in his side worsened and the foreign taste of blood in his mouth and nostrils infuriated him.
He launched himself forward, his huge worn curved horns tearing through the leaves and brush, his solid dome of a boss protecting his head.
He had timed it perfectly. His enemy stood barely meters away. He lowered his head so he could smash and hook them. But his lowered head obscured his vision for a split second and at this moment, both rifles barked out in succession.
Mike’s shot hit the bull squarely above the boss, through dense neck muscle, and he stumbled. The stoic old warrior collapsed in a mass of dust barely a few meters from where we stood.
We stepped back into the shade to admire this wonderful animal, and I moved away from Mike a little to give him room to set his emotions free.
The loud chatter and back slapping from the crew that appeared out of nowhere to take their place alongside Mike and his buffalo, was gratifying as each of them individually showed the bull respect.
A look at the bull showed that Mike’s shot had hit him correctly, but given the angle had possibly changed course and ended up missing the vitals.
With a more than 40” spread and massive worn bosses, the tips were all but gone showing his age – a bull with character. He bore the scars from hyena and lion as well as from a poacher’s spear.
Mike was over the moon.
As time was against us and we still had a lot of work to do, we took some pictures as quickly as we could, to be proudly displayed in a far-off land in a framed photograph, to be gazed upon by Mike’s children and grandchildren.
Mike wanted a European mount so we removed the head, and the trackers gutted the bull and tried to cover him as best possible with leaves and branches. We would have to return in the morning, and as it was, we would be walking back in the dark. Steven shouldered the massive head, and using his axe, balanced it on his shoulders and proceeded to make his way to the vehicle.
It had been a long day and the thrill of the hunt was replaced by exhaustion. Weary legs carried us home. I was not sure about Mike, but I could already taste the cold beer that waited in the cooler. The last several hundred meters was in darkness.
Finally, in the starlight, we saw my waiting Land Cruiser.
My respect for Mike was huge. After all he was 77.
