Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F52-53||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Limpopo Sable – Black Magic
By Peter Ryan
New Zealand to Africa sounds easy but it isn’t. I’ve made the journey a dozen times now, and it’s always a relief to walk in the door at Afton House, my overnight oasis in Johannesburg and launching point for so many safaris over the years. After 28 hours on the move a hot shower, a cold beer and a good steak is paradise.
The next day I’m in the Limpopo. After the cool greenery of a New Zealand winter, the bright light and red dirt of Africa is a shock to the eye, but a good one. Familiar sights wash back into the mind as the Cruiser churns its way through deep dust…knobthorn, sesame trees, blackthorn, camel thorn, raisin bush. Here we go again. It’s obvious straight away that the Limpopo has been in drought. The browsers can hold on, but by September the grazers will be in trouble. There is buffalo sign too, with plenty of them on this block wherever there is rough grazing and thick cover.
The beauty of a top safari outfit is the quality of their hunting grounds. This block is family-owned and was one of the first to convert to game way back in the 1970s. They don’t buy animals in, and they don’t push it hard, just one hunter at a time taking off very conservative numbers. The pickups by the skinning shed are staggering – many are mature males that simply died out there of old age. There are usually a dozen or so mature sable bulls roaming freely across the block, with just one or two taken off each year. It’s a class operation from start to finish.
It’s good to catch up with Hans ‘Scruff’ Vermaak again, boss at Coenraad Vermaak Safaris. We’ve hunted before, for buff and plains game up in the Kalahari, for bushbuck in the tangles of KwaZulu-Natal. I know his family, in fact his young son Caleb was at my shoulder when I took a lovely nyala bull last year. We muck around taking pictures and talk rugby, and play spot-the-wildlife and generally mess around like a couple of teenagers. Safari life is a fine thing.
The rifles I’ve taken on previous trips have been seriously retro, but then again I’m a bit of a dinosaur myself. There was a sweet little BRNO model 21 in 7×57, a ZG-47 in .30-06, a .375. Today I’m carrying an old Husqvarna, the one with the lovely Mauser 98 action made for them by FN. It’s in 9.3×62, a classic bushveld caliber. Restocked in New Zealand walnut, it’s come up a treat. South African old- timers will understand these sentimental choices.
I’m running Norma’s 285-grain Oryx load, and the whole outfit is topped with a Swarovski Z6 in 1-6. Does it shoot? Checking the zero I put two shots down, the first one bang on line but a touch high. The second – Scruff and I can’t find until we walk up. It has cut the first to make a single ragged hole, better than I normally shoot and not bad after twelve thousand kilometres of air travel. Let’s go hunting.
Confession time. I’ve hunted several Cape buffalo, water buffalo in Australia and a lot of the “royal” antelope, but few things get me as excited as a serious warthog. Cheap and cheerful they may be but big pigs still make my palms sweat. In the shade on the edge of a huge pan we watch sows and youngsters come and go, but no real ivory. Many times we walk into promising country only to have the breeze swing and watch high tails steaming off into the bush. Tomorrow is another day.
Tomorrow passes and we’ve started to get a bead on where we need to be, not just for warthog but a seriously good impala holding lots of girls. It’s mid-June but the rams are still running hot, and this one is something special. He doesn’t move far but they don’t get that size by being silly. Through the scope I get one look at long tips surging through the bush, but no shot.
So we have two species patterned, and soon the last one on my wish list. We scout up the odd sable bull, then suddenly there he is, a dark shape camped in the shade. Predictably he doesn’t like people much and drifts away into the thickets. If we retreat quietly he may still hang around the general area – sable sometimes do. Then again sometimes they don’t and I fall asleep that night wondering. He looked pretty special.
Back on the big pan the next morning a female warthog drifts by, and suddenly there’s a solid boar right behind her. They trot by and it’s time to get serious. I mess up the sticks a little and an unseen sow is right onto us. She hits the alarm button, and what was going to be a set-up shot at 150 metres suddenly isn’t. The big boar is trotting hard now, that pace when they are just about to really hit overdrive. It’s now or kiss him goodbye.
The dot swings past the dust trail, past the pumping hams, through the big-boned head. Squeeze and keep swinging. What feels like a long time later, the whock of a solid hit floats back. Not ideal but he’s anchored. Go again. And all of a sudden there’s my first head of African game taken on the run. For all those years of supposed experience my hands are shaking. A good game animal should always be worth that much.
Time to work on that ram. Ernest Hemingway once created a character who was asked how he went bankrupt. “Gradually…then suddenly” was the reply. Working on a great head of game is often like that. You work hard for days, try hard not mess it up, then all of a sudden things fall in your lap.
That ram is bigger than we thought. He’s at a hundred yards but completely surrounded by a staggering number of ewes front and back. Talk about charisma, he must be the George Clooney of impalas. The sticks are up and I’m looking squarely at him. He’s clear behind now, but right in front of his chest two females are facing nose to nose, blocking any shot.
We wait. They stand. An ear flickers. The ewe on the left looks backward, the space where her head was creating an opening to his shoulder, then just as quickly she looks forward again. Checkmate. Another nervous wait. She twitches, then back in place immediately. More seconds trickle by, finger on trigger, deep breaths, and ignore the tension creeping into stiffening muscles.
Eventually she swings her head to look behind and the shot breaks instantly. The sight picture is lost in the recoil, but Scruff is hammering my back and shouting, “Down! He’s down!” I see a white belly, and breathe a long, shaky whistle.
No ground shrinkage here. He’s an honest 26, heavy with it and a beautiful shape. Calming down after the pictures I suddenly realise its Father’s Day. I think about my son and daughter so far away in New Zealand, and then my own father. The hat I’m wearing belonged to him. It’s good in open country, a bit tricky in thick thorn, but I take it as a memory of him and the hunting days he gave me.
After an evening session on doves, a new dawn breaks and it’s time to start working on sable again. Would the bull we saw still be around? Only one way to find out.
After some scouting and a couple of smooth stalks, Robert the tracker points. It takes time, but there’s definitely a bull out there. We need him to turn in profile, and after a few minutes he does. No doubt about it, game on. The cover is thick with no chance of a shot – all that thorn would just eat up a bullet. The morning breeze isn’t helping, a kick of dust shows it swirling, never heading the same way twice. I frown. Scruff frowns. The bull starts to move. We flank him as best we can, just over a hundred yards out, moving forward to look for an opening. There is one, maybe six metres wide. Now we wait.
I’ve lost him in the thick stuff and so have Scruff and the trackers. More waiting and the minutes begin to stretch out. Doubts play on your mind. Did he wind us? Has he turned?
If you have to think long and hard about whether a game animal is a trophy, he isn’t. The great ones announce themselves. The bull walks through a small window of bush and it’s clear in a split second that he’s magnificent. In a minute he should appear in the ambush set-up. That’s a minute for something to go wrong, for the nerves to build.
It doesn’t take that long. Suddenly he’s there, out in the open but covering ground. A few more steps and he’ll be gone. Then three things happen in a blur.
Tracking him in the Swarovski, I whisper to Scruff but before the word is even finished he’s made a sharp little noise. The bull pauses broadside and the shot rings out. All three things went down in the same second – it was just as slick as that. An easy shot in the end, if there is such a thing, and that’s the way it should be. That big slow Oryx bullet lands right on the point of the shoulder. The bull goes a handful of yards and is down.
I’ve watched and photographed sable for 20 years now, but this is only the second I’ve raised a rifle to. (My first was up in Zimbabwe, but that mount was destroyed in the earthquakes that struck New Zealand in 2011.) I’m still sad about that loss…but a scarred-up 46-inch sable has a way of cheering you up for a long, long time.
A bit of rough math, and it occurs to me that today is exactly my 100th hunting day in Africa, if you string them all together. Lord knows what that cost – I don’t want to know, that way lies madness – but let me say this: I can’t think of anything else that would have been half as much fun. I wouldn’t swap those memories for anything.
Events blur into one on safari. More doves, and a lovely Beretta at sundown. Guineas and francolin. The beast of a male honey badger that scuttled across the track right in front of us. The tracks that tell the story of a wildebeest calf stuck in mud until the hyenas dragged him out. The high kopje that looked out over a waterhole, and a tawny shape hiding nearby – caracal, a huge tom.
Why go on safari? In truth it’s all these things. Speaking for myself, I never go to Africa just to shoot at something. I go because if I did not, some part of me might wither and die.
That’s why.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F52-53||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17719,17720,17721″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F26-27||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Swazi Hooded Sweatshirt
Swazi launches The Hood Sweatshirt
Respected around the globe, award-winning cult hunting clothing brand Swazi Apparel has unveiled a stylish and practical polar fleece – The Hood.
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Made in New Zealand at Swazi’s factory nestled under the Tararua Mountains, The Hood is made from 280gsm polar fleece. It is long cut to retain warmth, and comes with a handy zipped chest pocket.
Davey Hughes, founder and creative director at Swazi Apparel commented: “I believe a lot of innovation comes from necessity. The Swazi team is made up of a lot of hunters, who are out in the field, wearing our gear all the time, so they understand the requirements for a good outdoor garment. I was camping out on a really windy, cold morning, wearing one of our global favorite garments, the Swazi Bush Shirt which has been in our stable for 23 years, when I came up with the idea to add a hood. The Hood was designed to act as an extra collar, stopping the wind going down the back of your neck, and that’s where the name came from.”
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For more information, visit www.swazi.co.nz[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F26-27||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F46-47||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]The Highest of Highs…
By PH Jofie Lamprecht
I met the Butlers for the first time at a hunting show in the U.S. Our paths crossed again at the 95th Heym invitational at the maker’s rifle factory in Germany in 2013. At this event I acted as translator between what was dubbed “Team America” and the predominantly Bavarian attendees. We spent hours touring the factory, choosing blanks of wood, visiting engravers in their cavernous-home workshops and – the most fun of all – shooting a variety of, and mostly large-caliber, Heym double rifles.
May 2018 found us hunting in cattle country, in the Waterberg area of Namibia. The thick bush below was shadowed by the 1000-foot-high red sandstone cliffs of the Waterberg plateau in the background. It’s one of the biggest privately owned cattle operations in Namibia where leopards are not persecuted because of their value for hunting, and there is a large and healthy free-ranging population. There is also an abundance of other game. Losses of cattle are tolerated, offset by hunters’ dollars. With a National Park as its eastern border, and a cat sanctuary which is also unfenced on the western border – this is the ideal place to hunt leopard legally in Namibia with some success. With the very restricted tag system in place in this country, sustainability is assured through controlled utilization.
So there we are, Marc Butler and me in the late afternoon sun, sneaking a mile and a half to the leopard blind, when I realize I have left the tripod for the rifle in the truck. “Idiot!” I said to myself. We had several baits out and I wanted to make sure we had this stable shooting platform quickly available if we had another good cat on bait. I quickly went to get it, then headed back to Marc. As I walked down the bush path, I saw Marc raise his double rifle and shoot, just 200 yards from the leopard blind.
I hoped and prayed that if he had shot the leopard, he made a good offhand shot…
When I got there, “G” and Marc were not tensely following the trail of whatever it is they shot at, but casually walking through the bush with rifles slung over their shoulders. “G” as we affectionately call him, is our resident master-hunting-guide, full of local knowledge, and our pre-baiter who has a passion for leopard hunting. He’s a valuable asset to our hunting team. My fears subsided – they had shot at something that would not scratch them back too badly.
Leaving the tripod in the road I followed them into the bush. The blood trail and spoor is obvious – warthog.
After fifty yards I saw the pig, dead, with large .375 flanged wounds on his flanks. But we already had plenty of bait. What the hell? Then I walked up close and saw what they had seen – a monster warthog boar.
Marc turned to me with a smile…“I hope you are not too mad at me?”
I shrugged. “It’s your hunt.” I had no better response. “G” and I dragged the trophy-worthy brute to the road, and iPhone pictures were hastily taken. We left the pig there for later collection and continued to the leopard blind.
In the blind, our breathing calmed. Sweat dried. We buttoned down the last three air vents at about 17:00 – reading, listening to eBooks or napping. Pied babblers (an excitable bird that goes wild when anything is out of place) went wild close to the bait. A minute later, like magic, a leopard appeared from the thick bush. The tension in the little blind increased by 200%. The sun still shone hot and bright in the late afternoon. Cautiously the elegant feline looked around and circled the shadowed tree. We hardly breathed. It was a small female. For 90 minutes we had the pleasure of watching her feeding, jumping a little, falling, resting, with ear-scratching and other catlike antics. As shooting light passed, we slowly left the blind after an exciting afternoon without sight of our big tom.
Early waking at 3 a.m. came all too quickly. Coffee for me, a Coke for Marc. Our eyes were glued to the bright LED bar of light that cut our way open to the blind. By 4:30, after a walk in pitch-darkness with a sliver of new moon, we sat like an old couple, legs under blankets, huddled to keep warm behind the false safety of our blind. We waited. Around 5:30 we heard it. Heavy scratching and a labored climb as something cumbersomely made its way to our bait. Silence. Then the unmistakable sounds of ribs and other bones being crushed by a heavy jaw. Slowly optics were raised to try and see through the veil of darkness. Marc strained through his scope. Nothing. Just blackness. For an hour of agonizing suspense, we could hear what we thought was our quarry, but could not see it. Just the cracking of bones assured us that there was still something, something substantial, in the tree.
A female leopard jaw is not strong enough to break large bones; this is left to the males – or brown hyena in this area – but our bait was hung too high for hyena.
With legal shooting light being 30 minutes before actual sunrise, (and in my opinion ethical actual shooting light only being 10 minutes after this), the minutes felt like hours. The birds’ chirping signaled the breaking of dawn, the francolin rejoicing having made it through the night, as the gray sky slowly lightened to pink.
One could just barely make out the bait tree, movement at the bait, and not much more. Certainly not a hyena there, unless they started climbing trees! No sexing or size could be determined yet. My mind swung back and forth between success – temptation to say, “If you can see him, shoot him!” – and ethics: “If Marc shoots through the bait, surely he will hit some vital of the leopard.”
We waited. Minutes ticked slowly by. The slightest noise or mistake now meant failure. A bad shot could spell plenty of stitches. And then, like smoke, the leopard was out of the tree, and floated through the yellow-grey grass in front of the blind at an angle towards us.
No shot. Our blind was perched on the bank of a small riverbed, a steep cliff and dry waterfall in front of us, with the bait tree, and now the leopard, on the top of the cliff. The leopard was separated by what is called the B.O.B. principal – bait, obstacle, blind. We were higher than the bait, and from my angle I had full view of the leopard below us. He walked slowly, tail sickled in the air – but there was something about his gait. He had a severe limp. Front left. Sore foot? Thorn? Fight? Who knew? We might never know. Marc was constrained by the blind, having just a peephole that his rifle was aiming through, with no way of moving the rifle’s barrel more than an inch.
However, I had a full view of the leopard, now stretched out at 40 yards below our blind like the sphinx. There was the temptation to move the tripod, or to have Marc stand or crouch in the blind to try and get an unsteady shot off, but the consequences outweighed the thought.
“Wait!” I silently mouthed to Marc. “WAIT!” Necks straining, eyes wide, it was hard to breathe.
Sunrise was officially at 7:15. Then at 7:09 the leopard made a mistake. After rolling, lying on his back, stretching, yawning, scratching and doing everything a cat does, it was time for another helping of breakfast. The leopard suddenly got up and started walking. I put my hand on Marc leg, the contact like a shot of electricity.
“Get ready.” We held our breath. The leopard rounded the tree and clambered up the rough bark to his feast. As he reached with one paw to pull the 200-pound warthog closer, he exposed his rosette flank.
“Yes!” The tranquility of the morning was shattered. With a growl the leopard fell from the tree and disappeared into the dense bush. The thrill of the hunt, the resounding feeling of achievement seemed to reverberate in the blind. Silence. Wait. And then follow up. I took out my iPhone and started a timer with trembling fingers. We had 10 minutes. More light, more time for the bullet to have its effect.
“Shot good?” Marc just nodded like a teenager having gotten his first love-letter from a pretty girl. (Dawn who he later married).
As the light increased, I looked at the timer at least once a minute. Finally the time was up, and it was time to face the heat
in this kitchen – time to clean up. With stiff legs and backs we got out of the blind, checked and rechecked our Heym rifles, Marc with his flanged .375 double, and me carrying a .300 Win. Mag. double.
We edged across the river, atop the cliff towards the bait tree, looking for sign. Lung blood on a nearby raisin bush indicated the right direction. We followed, Marc and I flanking “G” who squatted and pointed. There, 40 yards away lay the leopard.
It is experiences like these that draw us back to the bush; it is indeed what keeps some of us in it. The challenges, the low lows and the highest of highs. Where else in the world today does one get these pure feelings of euphoria?
It is the privilege that we hunters have, in the seemingly selfish pursuit of our passion, of saving Africa’s wildlife with a value-for-value system that protects free-ranging populations of Africa’s wildlife.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F46-47||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17706,17707,17708,17709,17710,17711,17712,17713,17714″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F40-41||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]THE MOYOWOSI MAULER
By George Gehrman
The drone of the Cessna 206 was getting monotonous. We’d been in the air for some time on a flight from Arusha in Tanzania to Wengert-Windrose’s camp in the South Moyowosi concession, far to the west of the country. PH Natie Oelofse was in the process of learning to fly, and was at the controls getting in some flight time. Three hours after departing Arusha, the plane dipped down over a broad, green plain bisected by a wide river gleaming in the sunlight – the Moyowosi in the remote west central region of Tanzania.
“So what do you think about this Africa?” asked Natie with a broad grin.
“Pretty impressive,” I replied. As we descended to the landing strip, herds of buffalo could be seen, along with vast numbers of topi and zebra. A line of gray toward the horizon was a herd of elephant filing along to the river. We weaved and bobbed a bit as we lowered towards the ground. Turned out Natie was quite adept in the air, but he still needed some practise on his landings!
Natie had been after me for some time to get away from the southern Africa countries where I’d been hunting, and see his “real” Africa in Tanzania. I had to admit that what I’d seen so far in the Masailand was impressive enough, but the wildness and remoteness of this area could take one’s breath away. Camp lay about one hour’s drive into the miombo forest away from the airstrip. Game of many species stood watching, or sometimes bolting off into the cover as we drove by. The camp was typical East African style – sleeping tents with an en suite toilet and shower facility on concrete slabs covered with thatch roofs and surrounded by reed walls. There were hard-packed walkways between the various sections of the camp which consisted of a kitchen, large open-air dining area, and, of course, a fire ring surrounded by chairs. The camp itself was situated under trees around a natural spring which attracts numerous animals, including elephants from time to time. Everything out here is BIG: the Moyowosi South hunting concession covers over 1,200 square miles.
The order of the day was Cape buffalo, and not just any buff. I’d already taken one over 40 inches, and wanted a true old Dagga Boy with character to show what kind of life it had lived. At this time of the year, early October, just as the rains start, the huge herds of buffalo on the flood plains start to break up, some with the old bulls heading off in the miombo scrub.
After a great dinner of roan steak, it was time to make a plan. The resident PH of the Fish Eagle camp, Wayne Hendry, suggested that we follow a trail along the edge of the flood plain of the river and check for tracks of the bulls as they moved off the open areas. And so, early the next morning Natie and I headed out along the track we came in on the day before. We’d hardly gotten a good start when Natie braked to a halt. Warthog! It stood still as a statue in the middle of the track ahead of us – difficult to see in the deep shadow of the forest and the gloom before sunrise.
“Want him?” Natie whispered. “He’s huge.” He was indeed the largest warthog I’d ever seen and I did want him, but declined the shot since I didn’t want to take a chance of alarming any buff that could be nearby. I’ve regretted that decision ever since! We broke out of the forest just as life on the river plain was waking up. We stopped and glassed for a bit, but no buff, and so we continued on the trail along the edge of the flood plain. It was only a short while before the trackers spotted buffalo tracks – three bulls crossing our trail and heading into the bush. The hunt was on!
It was vintage buffalo tracking. The going was slow as there was still a lot of dead grass in the bush – the trackers would lose the tracks in the grass in the open areas, then pick them up again as they moved through the scrub across bare patches of ground. Every stop for a suspected glimpse of our quarry heightened the tension. An hour passed and the sign became increasingly fresh.
Then the adrenaline rush as the lead tracker dropped to a knee and pointed ahead – he’d seen them. More accurately, he’s seen bits and pieces of them, just a black spot there and there in the brush ahead. And they know where we are, as the breeze in the trees is squirreling around every which way. Natie used his binoculars to try to sort them out, but we were pinned down where we were. They moved away a short distance and we sneaked into a new position, but I still hadn’t got a look at them.
“They’re all good bulls,” Natie whispered, “but we won’t have a chance to pick the best under the conditions we’re in.” He checked again then whispered urgently, “There, crossing ahead of us, take the last one!”
“What last one? I can’t see them!”
“Just there, 30 yards out.” At the very last moment the scene jumped into focus and I saw a buffalo moving to my right across a short opening in the trees. One fast shot from my .375 H&H and they were gone, disappearing into the thick brush.
“How was the shot?” asked Natie
“A bit high and too far back, but was definitely a hit into the chest area,” I told him. The trackers confirmed hearing a hit that sounded solid. We waited for a good 20 minutes, then headed off toward where we’d last seen the buff. We came into an open area and moved slowly ahead towards another grove of trees. We hadn’t quite reached the edge of the trees when Natie froze, and we saw that my bull was down. But a second bull had stayed with him and stood guard. The guard bull broke, and my bull was on his feet and off on a run.
Natie threw “Baby”, his .470 Nitro Express double, into action and I added my .375 into the fray. We took off running after the bull, dodging through the thorn bush and trees in a manner that would do a pro running back proud. We slammed on the brakes as he came into the clear for a moment and got off a second volley toward him. He disappeared into some thick stuff for a moment, and when he reappeared, he staggered and went down. We approached, and after the obligatory insurance shot, we went up to him. My first shot was right where I called it, passing through the top of the lungs. He would have died from it eventually, but it would have taken a while.
He was a splendid bull and exactly what I was looking for. His horns spread nearly 44 inches and carried heavy, thick bosses. But it was upon closer examination that we discovered what a tough life this old boy had led. His ears were tattered and torn from various scrapes with lions and sharp horn tips of younger buff bulls. On top of his back was a large scabbed-over area, still with an open wound in the middle, signs of an attack by lions some months earlier. But it wasn’t until he was being skinned that the final passage was written about him. Noisy chatter from the normally silent skinners indicated that something unusual was going on. The head tracker came up to Natie and me, carrying a soft iron ball which they’d dug out of his neck, evidence of a poacher’s failed attempt to kill him many years earlier. Measured back home I found the ball to be .75 inches in diameter and it weighed an even one ounce.
Truly, this bull was a mauler.
From: George Gehrman [mailto:trackingafrica307@gmail.com][/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F40-41||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17693,17694,17695,17696,17697,17698,17699,17700″][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F144-145||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]One for the Road,
Wieland
THE GREATEST
The subject came up, as subjects will, around a table at the shooting club. One of the denizens wondered aloud who might be considered the greatest hunter in history. We’d been talking about Africa, so I presumed he meant Africa.
“Selous?” he asked. “Bell? Harry Selby, maybe?”
This is a question for which there is no right answer. And anyway, what exactly are we talking about? The greatest professional hunter? The greatest hunting guide? The greatest ivory poacher? Who shot the most lions?
A few years ago in Alaska, a guide was telling me about a character he’d met. He was an enormously fat fellow, but also enormously wealthy, having grown fat in both senses on the proceeds of a chain of restaurants. It was this man’s goal, I was told, to be known as the greatest sheep hunter in history. To that end, he kept a bunch of outfitters on retainer, watching out for big sheep. When they found one they’d call him, hoist him up the mountain somehow, and he would pop the ram.
It seemed to me then, and it seems now, that such bizarre behavior would qualify you for many labels, but “greatest sheep hunter” is not one of them.
It has generally been acknowledged that Frederick Courteney Selous would be on anyone’s short list as the greatest of African hunters, but so would Sir Samuel Baker. These were men who roamed on their own, explored territory previously unseen, and were independent and self-sufficient to the point of folly. They killed for meat, but they also killed for specimens to take back to museums, to show the strange and heretofore unknown (by Europeans, at least) mammals, birds, and reptiles they encountered in their explorations.
Much of the exploration of Africa took place during the Victorian era, and if the Victorians had one dominant trait, it was an absolute passion for learning. By extension, this also meant reading. In an age before radio, television, and the highly dubious benefits of the Internet, the best source of information was books. At the same time, many of the men who ventured forth to open up unknown lands and extend the Empire were well-educated sons of prominent families. Naturally, having spent years in the wilderness, many returned home to write about their experiences. The years between 1850 and 1914 saw a flood of books on Africa and African hunting, with writers ranging from men who had made one hesitant safari to some who had spent their lives in the African bush.
It’s no coincidence that the names most commonly raised when the question of “the greatest” rears its ugly head are men who wrote books about themselves and their experiences. Sir Samuel Baker was a prolific writer, and a good one; he published ten books in his lifetime. Selous wrote a similar number, while Walter Dalrymple Maitland Bell wrote three. Bell, Baker, and Selous titles have become classics of African hunting literature, and some of their individual experiences are recounted third- or fourth-hand by people who know little else about them. One should add, in haste, that Baker, Selous, and Bell were the real thing and, if anything, their books understated their accomplishments.
Conversely, there were many great hunters who never wrote a word for public consumption, and their names are almost lost to history. William Cotton Oswell was one. Oswell was an early hunter in southern Africa who was one of the great gentlemen of his time, respected to the point of reverence by his peers. He accompanied David Livingstone on his legendary trek across the Kalahari to “discover” Lake Ngami; in fact, Oswell partly financed the expedition, was its main source of food through hunting, and most of the credit for finding Lake Ngami, and coincidentally discovering the southern sitatunga, should go to him. Instead, Livingstone — a man whose ego was easily as great as his undoubted virtues — took the credit, and Oswell allowed him to do so. When Livingstone’s body was returned to England in 1874 for interment at Westminster Abbey, Oswell was one of the pallbearers.
Oswell’s name undoubtedly belongs on the same list as Baker and Selous, yet most people, including most hunters, have never heard of him. But never mind who might or might not be the greatest of African hunters; why would we want to try to name one? What does it matter whether Bell was somehow more notable than Baker, or vice versa? Or if FC Selous out-ranked, on some artificial scale, John “Pondoro” Taylor?
There are no firm criteria for measuring anyone’s hunting accomplishments unlike, for example, baseball. Baseball is the most minutely recorded game, in terms of individual statistics, that the world has ever seen. In theory, at least, it should be simple to add up the numbers and name the greatest baseball player in history. Yet no one has been able to do that without provoking endless argument.
The closest we come to such statistics are the record books of big game, and occasionally someone suggests adding up the number of entries some guy has in Rowland Ward or the Safari Club record book, or counting how many number-one heads he has to his credit. Since neither Rowland Ward nor SCI are either compulsory or comprehensive, this suggestion is pretty weak. Many people treasure their entries in “the book” and religiously submit every post-puberty mammal they deck, but since record-book entries are voluntary, and methods of measurement and divisions of species variable and arbitrary, such entries prove absolutely nothing one way or the other.
It would seem to me that the only people qualified to even have an opinion on this are professional hunters themselves, and by that I mean hunting guides, game wardens, ivory hunters and the like. Probably the man who has researched all of this more carefully than anyone is Brian Herne, himself a professional hunter and author (Uganda Safaris and White Hunters.) As far as I can tell, even in the latter, he does not offer an opinion as to who was “the greatest.” Possibly, he didn’t want to make enemies; more likely, he couldn’t really say. Or, and maybe most probably, he just didn’t want to get into endless, pointless arguments.
After his first safari in 1951, Robert Ruark seemed bent on establishing Harry Selby as the best white hunter (the term then in use) of his generation, and one of the best of all time. He was certainly one of the best then practising the trade, but a dozen others were equally good, if not better in some ways. Ernest Hemingway felt the same way about Philip Percival, but he also admired Bror Blixen. It’s natural to hero-worship your first PH, but as you get to know others, the waters get somewhat murky. That happened with both Hemingway and Ruark.
Another way of looking at this question is to ask, of all the great African hunters in history, who would you most like to go on safari with?
Having thought about that, long and hard, here’s my answer: Put me on a boat down the Nile with Florence von Sass, the second wife of Sir Samuel Baker. Lean a Rigby rising-bite against my deck chair, put a tall gin and tonic in my hand, and I don’t care if I shoot anything. In fact, let me go out on a limb: Purely on the basis of his having been married to such a woman, I’d give the title to Sir Samuel. Florence von Sass was a woman to stop the heart.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F144-145||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F68-69||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]The Ghost of the Darkness
By Dan Hendrickson
Africa calls. Within a few weeks after my fourth safari I was already dreaming about going back. Because of my success in hunting with Stormberg Elangeni Safaris (SES) on the Eastern Cape of South Africa in 2017, and the wide variety of game there, I decided to return in June of 2018. This time, I planned to take my 12-year-old grandson, Austin for his first safari. His older brothers, Cole and Cade, had both hunted with me in Africa when they were 13 years old.
Now it was Austin’s turn, and he had a wish list. Mine included klipspringer, Cape grysbok, bushpig and caracal. Planning a year in advance, I applied for an oribi tag. SES went out of their way to get me an oribi permit, and just two weeks before I left, I received it. I had also included blue duiker in my list, hoping to add to my collection of the Tiny Ten pygmy antelope in Africa.
We were met at the Port Elizabeth airport by PH Juan Greef and tracker/skinner Silas. Silas, a very jovial fellow, was from the Shona tribe in Zimbabwe.
The SES team had planned our hunt extremely well. We were to begin with the klipspringer hunt in the Cape Fold Mountains referred to as the Karoo area, where there were also some quality springbok, especially the copper variety, and some very good steenbok. We succeeded in just two days, taking a very nice klipspringer, steenbok, and a copper springbok that should be in the top 20!
Day 3. We traveled to the Stormberg Mountains and settled into SES’s quaint, historic Bufflesfontein Lodge owned and operated by Robbie and Angela Stretton. There, in one day Austin took a nice springbok, a huge blesbok with 18½ horns, and a gold medal mountain reedbuck. At another historic lodge about 50 km from Port Alfred we took blue duiker, oribi, caracal, Cape grysbok and a huge 30” waterbuck.
We spent the final three days hunting blue wildebeest, blesbok, impala, warthog, and bushpig in the Kat River Conservancy at the Manzikhanya Lodge, owned and operated by John and Isabel Sparks. Hunting the bushpig was quite a challenge. In 2017 Cade had a shot at a bushpig on the last day there, and missed. Apparently, his nerves got to him as the pigs passed just five yards from him going to the bait. As he was about to shoot, the automatic lights malfunctioned. Juan turned on his flashlight, but Cade shot too fast.
This year, we had two baits out with game cameras at each place. There were different big boars coming into both baits on a fairly regular basis. When they became accustomed to eating the carcasses at the bait site (bushpigs love eating carrion), Juan added the automatic green hog lights that were infrared activated. A hole was dug for their special corn-based pig bait.
Bushpigs don’t have very good eyesight, but their sense of smell and hearing makes them a challenging animal to hunt. They are very wary nocturnal creatures, seldom seen in daylight. Juan half-jokingly referred to the elusive bushpig boars as “the Ghosts of the Darkness” – quite a fitting name!
We planned to take at least one of the huge boars that we had seen on the game cameras. After checking the wind, we marked a trail through the brush to help us navigate in the dark. The bushpigs were hitting the bait after sunset between 6:15 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. After dusk, Juan and I left the vehicle and made our way to the bait, about three-quarters of a mile away. Wearing headlamps, we worked our way through the hills and creek bottoms until we got to the foot of the final hill. The bait was about 100 yards past the top of this hill. We slowly and quietly made it to the top without using any lights, and stood on a large flat boulder at the edge of the slope, and watched a dark clump of brush close to where the bait was.
We stayed until 8 p.m. but nothing ever activated the green lights. We checked the bait and saw the rotten corn was untouched. Juan didn’t think the pigs would be coming that night, so we left. But next morning as we began hunting, Juan received a call from John Sparks to inform him that the pigs had hit the bait at 8:45 p.m. the previous night and stayed there 45 minutes!
It was Day 9. We searched for a trophy blue wildebeest, glassed some nice bulls, but nothing worth pursuing. However, we saw herds of Cape eland, black wildebeest, springbok and blesbok in that wide valley. Juan spotted a huge blesbok ram in a group of at least forty animals and we decided to go after him. We bumped them three times before the big ram stopped at 250 yards with three other sizable rams. As Juan described the location of the ram within the group, I found him in my Leupold V6 scope, but another ram was behind him, making the shot too risky. He moved and then another ram walked in front of him.
“Aim a little bit back because of the wind,” Juan said. As that one cleared, Juan called the shot. I took a breath, steadied my Remington Model 700 7mm Magnum straight up his front leg to the center of his chest, and squeezed off the shot. I didn’t think that the 160-grain Barnes TSX BT bullet would drift much at that distance and I was right. I hit exactly where I had aimed, and he went right down in his tracks. His 17½” whitish horns were impressive – quite an exceptional trophy.
After lunch, we headed to another property, searching for a warthog or impala for Austin. Juan glassed a valley and found a herd of impala, as well as a very nice mature kudu bull below us. We made a half-mile stalk, located several rams, but Juan decided to look for a better one, and we eased through the valley, working our way behind the acacia trees. We spotted a nice ram about 225 yards and Juan put up the sticks, but Austin said that he wasn’t steady enough to try the shot. Then suddenly a kudu bull appeared in front of us about 250 yards, and we let him get out of sight before Juan and Austin moved forward. Baboons on the hillside barked their alarm as we moved slowly ahead, but eventually, we gave up and we headed to the truck as the sun was sinking. That night, the bushpigs did not visit the bait site.
Day 10. This was our last day to hunt, and we woke up to a light rain. John and Juan said that the cold, damp weather would hinder Austin’s chance of getting a warthog. However, I felt confident that we would have good luck. We drove to a property that was seldom hunted as indicated by the faint tracks, and made our way through the fairly thick acacia trees on the hillside. Within 30 minutes we spotted four nice impala rams to our left, one of them with exceptionally long, thick, black horns. To be honest, I really wanted to take that one, but it would thrill me more if Austin did.
Austin tried to get set up for a shot, but the four rams ran to the right. It was raining softly then, so I remained in the Toyota pickup, while they continued the stalk. They were gone about 30 minutes, when I saw two nice rams running toward me. They stopped about 80 yards away in almost the same place as before. One was the big ram! I grabbed the radio.
“Juan, two of the rams ran back to the same place. One is the big ram.”
“We are stalking them,” Juan answered. I watched as the two rams looked behind them and ran, and eventually Juan, Silas, and Austin arrived. The two impala had joined another group of four, and Austin tried several times to connect with a shot through the dense trees, but couldn’t seal the deal. I could tell that his nerves were getting to him.
Then we found a nice mature ram with a herd of 15 females, and Austin was able to get a shot. We heard a thud and knew that he had connected. We got on the track, Juan and Silas going to the right and Austin and I searching further north. Juan and Silas were 150 yards from us when we heard a shot. When we joined up with them we saw a beautiful ram with thick horns lying on the ground. Austin had shot him too far back, but Juan had put him down for good.
Our shoes and socks were pretty wet by then, and the cold made it uncomfortable, so we headed back to the skinning shed, an old British soldiers’ headquarters during the Boer War. On the way we spotted some warthogs near a dam, and our luck held out, although it was still wet and cold. Juan, Silas and Austin went through some goat pens and worked their way to the dam. Before long, I heard a shot, and it sounded good. Soon Juan came walking back. “He got him!” he smiled. We drove across to find Austin beaming. He finally got his warthog, and it was a very nice one with two long matching tusks.
After lunch and dry clothes, it was time for bushpig, as the sun was going down.
We approached the area from a different road because of the southwest wind. It was 6 p.m. Fifteen minutes later, from where we were sitting we saw the green glow of the hog light illuminate the hill on the skyline! It was pitch-black with no moon. I told Austin to stay in the vehicle. Juan said to play it safe and use no lights as we began walking pretty fast toward the green glow about three-quarter of a mile away. I focused on Juan’s long pants legs and walked where he did. We trod carefully to avoid disturbing a rock or breaking a stick.
It was very difficult for me, but Juan had no problem. It seemed like an eternity, but we made it. We just needed to get a little closer to make out the dark images below the light. Juan moved to the right and motioned for me to get my rifle in place on the tripod, but I couldn’t see a thing. I reached out, located the apex, and put my rifle in the cradle.
“Shoot the one in the middle, it’s a big one!” said Juan. I saw three shapes in my Leupold V6 scope, and put the illuminated red dot on the largest one’s shoulder, carefully took aim, and squeezed off the shot.
“Did I hit him?”
“I think so. The pigs ran to the right after you fired.”
We eased our way up to the spot where the pigs had been before the shot, and didn’t see any blood. All of the sour corn was gone, so they wouldn’t have stayed there much longer. We walked slowly and very cautiously to the right along a game trail. Juan had showed me ghastly photos of a man’s thigh, the result of a wounded bushpig attack, so I readied my rifle and listened carefully as we inched forward. We walked about 100 yards to the edge of a small canyon and stopped. Juan decided that we needed to go back to camp and get PH John Sparks with his .375 H&H backup rifle, and his tracking dogs. Good idea! As we were walking back to the pickup, we came across a large animal track in the sandy road. Juan asked me if I knew what it was.
“Leopard?” He nodded, but said it was not very fresh. That was a relief!
John Sparks was waiting outside with his dogs, Jasper, a Belgian Malinois cross, and Zinga a Rhodesian Ridgeback. We didn’t bring Juan’s dog, Chappie, because he was injured. John, Silas, and the two dogs went ahead of us as we made our way back to the bait area. John brought his dogs out on leashes and walked slowly to the right of the bait. Within 15 yards, the dogs put their noses to the ground.
“Blood,” said John. There was one drop of blood there. I knew that I had hit him! They went another 20 feet and did it again. This time there was more blood. He turned the dogs loose. Jasper started quartering ahead, then ran straight for 30 yards and stopped, licking something in the grass.
“They’ve found him!” said John. We were all very excited to see if it was the big boar that John had regularly seen on the game camera. As I walked up to it, I was relieved and shocked to see that it was huge and wild-looking, covered with long white hair – quite a demonic specimen with long, flesh-gnashing tusks and ears ragged from fighting.
Our 10-day safari couldn’t have ended better. Austin and I completed our wish lists, all spectacular trophies. The “Ghost of the Darkness” hunt had added another layer of memories to our magical days on the Eastern Cape of South Africa. The experiences that we shared on this incredible journey will be with us forever!
Once again, the SES team surpassed my expectations. Special thanks go to my PH Juan Greef; tracker/skinner Silas; Robbie and Angela Stretton; John and Isabel Sparks; Murray and Yvette Danckwerts; James and Viv Quin, and the entire SES team.
As a boy, Dan Hendrickson began hunting on Dixon Creek in the Texas Panhandle. His love of quail hunting led him to raising, training, and competing together with his English pointer bird-dogs. He and his wife, Glenda, founded Phantom Kennels in Abilene, Texas. His favorite pastime was hunting whitetail deer and exotics in Texas, and elk and mule deer in New Mexico until he discovered Africa. Africa changed him forever! He founded Hendrickson Hunting, LLC in 2011 and began helping other hunters as a hunting agent. He and his clients have numerous animals in the SCI and Rowland Ward record books.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F68-69||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17738,17739,17740,17741″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F90-91||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Neck, Legs, and Fancy Feathers!
By Frank Berbuir
I am at full draw with my bow, highly focused and concentrated, and the sight pin is placed on the spot where the vital area is when I smoothly release the trigger…
But let us start at the beginning. It is November again, cold, grey and rainy in my home town and country, and the desire for Africa is tearing me. So after some phone calls and arrangements, at end of the month I found myself back again on a plane to Namibia. After having been there in April, it is the second time that year.
Having hunted several times in northern Namibia, I was bound for the second time to the south, not far from a small village called Maltahöhe and very close to the Kalahari Desert.
During the 250 miles drive south from Windhoek airport to our hunting destination, I enjoyed the diversified landscapes and settled in to being back in Africa again.
As always in Namibia we had a hearty welcome in our camp after our arrival, and enjoyed relaxing, a chat, and having an ice-cold Savanna Dry Premium Cider or Windhoek Lager.
Initially this time I was going for springbok which are numerous in southern Namibia, and for some reasons have big trophy racks as well. So we made plans about where to go to hunt these medium-sized brown and white antelope of southwestern Africa.
Because of the rough terrain and open veld, stalking was quite challenging and therefore unsuccessful for a couple of days, so we decided to hunt from a stone blind near a waterhole.
Our hunt started at mid-afternoon when we headed to the blind and, regrettably, spooked an old and very good warthog – what a pity. But that is life.
It was pretty warm (approx. 38°C or 100°F) being close to the Kalahari, with only a moderate breeze. We were happy when we reached the shade of the blind. Unfortunately nothing happened except bird watching, when francolins, pigeons and crimson-breasted gonoleks (Rotbauchwürger / Lanarius atrococcineus) appeared. After sunset we returned to the bakkie – our Land Rover – and were driving back when I saw a bunch of ostriches along our route. “Can ‘Mr Big Bird’ be hunted as well?” I asked my PH, Christian.
“Yes, you can hunt them and the meat is excellent, and would make a nice addition for our menu, and we could sell it,” he told me. “But do you think you can do it with bow and arrow? It is not that easy to shoot an ostrich.”
“I think it is possible, and if I do not try we will not know,” I said.
During our tasty dinner with excellent eland steaks, the idea of hunting an ostrich would not get out of my mind.
The next morning, out of bed early at four-thirty, and after a shower, a quick coffee and rusks, we were on the old Landy heading back to the blind. It was still dark and cold when we sat and contemplated what the day would bring. When the first sunlight gleamed over the hills and brightened up the landscape, and the birds began their dawn singing as jackals howled not far away, we felt fully compensated for the early wake up. At about 7:00 a.m. two young male gemsboks strolled to the water for a sip. They were unaware of us and relaxed, and I recorded some nice video sequences before they left.
Roughly half an hour later a young springbok ram sneaked up. He was alone, about 60 yards from the waterhole, and he checked out the scenery cautiously before he also came slowly to the water for a drink. As I was zooming in to video him, I noticed a shadow fall across his face, and he jumped back, because all of a sudden five ostriches clustered near the waterhole, and one of the big birds stood close to the young ram, chasing him off the water. Unbelievable – we did not hear or see them coming.
The springbok went off, and I gave the camera slowly to Christian to continue with the filming.
Holy cow – well, not a cow, but an ostrich rooster – at 28 yards distance. My blood pressure nearly went through the roof. In slow motion I put my hand around the birdseye maple grip of my bow where the strong carbon arrow with the broadhead was already nocked in, and picked it up.
The male ostrich’s head was going up and down to drink while the four others were waiting a few yards behind him. If I wanted to have a chance to shoot him I had to do it now. But where is the shooting or kill zone on an ostrich? A broadside shot is absolutely no option because his massive muscular legs are covering the vitals in the small body. A shot on the head is mostly what is executed when hunting them with a rifle. But I was thinking about a nice trophy shoulder mount, so did not want to shoot at the head and destroy it, and moreover shooting on this continually moving body part could have ended in an escaping ostrich if I missed, and the chance would be gone.
“Aim at the spot where the neck merges in the throat and into the chest,” Christian whispered. “It is a small spot, you have to hit, and do not shoot in the chest because there is the sternum or breast bone which is extremely tough and the arrow would probably not penetrate.”
Ok, this was a real challenge, because the aiming spot was fairly small, rather like trying to hit a small beer coaster that is going slightly up and down.
So I drew my 71 lbs bow and settled the sight pin directly on his throat between the neck and chest.
At the right moment when his head was in the top position and the bird stood completely still to swallow his sip, I released my arrow and it flew straight into the point I aimed on with a bone-cracking noise. The arrow went completely into the ostrich and you could only see the nock and a bit of fletch sticking out. Wow, that was impressive.
The big bird flapped his wings, tottered about 15 yards, and fell down dead. Only then did the four others go away.
What an amazing experience. I was still a bit shaky when Christian threw his floppy hat in the sand and back-slapped me, saying: “Great shot Frank! Unbelievable! You made it.”
We waited ten minutes till the other ostriches were out of sight before we stepped out of the blind to the bird. The arrow had fully penetrated the chest and vitals and stuck into the hamstring muscle of his right thigh – amazing what bow and arrow can execute. We took some pictures before Christian went to get the car, and we loaded the bird.
Back in camp the slaughtering brought some awesome ostrich haunches, and two days later we enjoyed some tasty steaks. There is nothing more worthwhile than having your own hunted food on the plate. Most of the meat was sold afterwards to restaurants, and the trophy is now an extraordinary addition as a shoulder mount in my trophy room. I also have some lovely cognac-colored leather, and a nice belt made of the shinbone skin.
Luckily, during this memorable trip I also took a fine springbok trophy ram with bow and arrow as intended, but that would be another story.
Once again the “Virus Africanus” brought me back to the Dark Continent and gave me a wonderful time.
Take care, “Waidmannsheil”, always good hunting and “Alles van die beste”
It was in Namibia, 2004 when I first got acquainted with these flightless birds native to Africa. Long necked and legged, the ostrich is the largest living species of bird, laying the largest eggs. It can run at up to about 70 km/h or 43 mph, the fastest land speed of any bird, and we checked this out when we drove behind them and they started to run. They held their running speed of 41 miles per hour beside the vehicle for quite a while.
The ostrich’s diet consists mainly of plant matter. It lives in nomadic groups of five to 50 birds. When threatened, the ostrich will either hide itself by lying flat against the ground, or run away. If cornered, it can attack with a kick of its powerful legs. Mating patterns differ by geographical region, but territorial males fight for a harem of two to seven females. The long neck and legs keep the head up to nine feet above the ground, and their eyes of about 2 inches diameter, shaded from sunlight above with long eyelashes, are said to be the largest of any land vertebrate. Their eyesight is their prime asset for spotting predators at a great distance.
However, the head and bill are relatively small for the bird’s huge size, and it is said that they are not the smartest creatures. Ostriches usually weigh from 139–320 pounds, or as much as two adult humans. The feathers of adult males are mostly black, with white primaries and a white tail. Females and young males are greyish-brown and white. The head and neck of both male and female ostriches is nearly bare. The skin varies in color depending on the subspecies, with some having light or dark-gray skin and others having pinkish or even reddish skin. The strong legs of the ostrich are unfeathered and show bare skin. Though most birds have four toes on each foot, the ostrich has just two on each foot, with the nail on the larger, inner toe resembling a hoof, while the outer toe has no nail. The adaptation enables swift running, useful for escaping from predators.
The six-foot plus wingspan is used in mating displays and to shade chicks. The feathers lack the tiny hooks that lock together the smooth external feathers of flying birds, and so are soft and fluffy and serve as insulation. Ostriches can tolerate a wide range of day and night temperatures which it controls using its wings to cover the naked skin of the upper legs and flanks to conserve heat, or leaving them bare to release heat. The wings also function as stabilizers to give better maneuverability when running -the wings are actively involved in rapid braking, turning and zigzag maneuvers. The decorative feathers are generally used as feather dusters, the skin for leather products, and the low-cholesterol meat is marketed commercially around the world. The lifespan of an ostrich can be up to 40–45 years.
Equipment:
Bow: 71# Bowtech Tribute
Sight: G5 Optix ME Sight
Arrow Rest: Trophy Ridge Drop Away Rest
Stabilizer: SVL Camo Stabilizer
Release: Scott Wildcat
Arrow: Carbon Express Maxima Hunter 350 Arrow
Broadhead: G5 Tekan II mechanical
Clothes: Sniper Africa Camo
Optics: Zeiss Victory 10 x 40 & Leupold RX-III Rangefinder[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F90-91||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17619,17620,17621,17622,17623,17624,17625,17626,17627,17628,17629″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F22-23||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Rebuilding Zimbabwe’s Wildlife Sector.
Towards the end of the 1950s a small group of cattle ranchers, who were also committed wildlife conservationists, pioneered the game ranching industry in Zimbabwe. The idea developed from the theory that a spectrum of wild animals is ecologically more efficient at producing meat and by-products than a single domestic species. The theory was untested, and considerable business risks were taken and many frustrations endured before game ranching was proved to be a viable land use alternative.
The country’s Wild Life Conservation Act, 1960, paved the way for the introduction of game ranching in Zimbabwe. The Parks and Wild Life Act of 1975 consolidated the process into a workable legal framework. This act was revolutionary in that the ownership of wildlife was transferred from the state to the appropriate authority of the land, with the exception of specially protected species. Critics of the act predicted the end of game outside of national parks, but in fact wildlife flourished.
The country’s Department of National Parks and wildlife management supported the fledgling game ranching industry through the capture and translocation of thousands of animals from parks’ estate onto private land. This enabled the ranchers to stock their land cheaply.
Buffalo Range ranch, situated in the south-east of the country, was one of the first cattle ranches to embrace game ranching. The region had always had good game populations, but wild animals were considered competitors with cattle for grazing, as well as a reservoir for diseases. Attempts to eliminate game were made through relentless hunting, fencing and denying the wild animals access to water.
Cattle ranching in Zimbabwe’s semi-arid regions is marginal, and many owners over the years have had to overstock to remain economically viable.
Ignoring long-term damage to the environment, the natural productivity of the systems became overburdened. Research in 1973 into the comparison between the ecological advantages of cattle and game found that the degraded vegetation in the game section of Buffalo Range ranch was being less stressed than the better vegetation in the cattle section. Thirteen years later, after the drought of 1982-1984, it was observed that the vegetation in the game section had continued to improve and was in better condition than that in the cattle section, which had continued to deteriorate.
The vegetation had become more productive under game and less so under cattle. This happened on a ranch where overstocking of cattle was much less severe than in many arid and semi-arid areas in Africa.
The results of the research showed that conventional beef production is not an ecologically and economically sustainable option in semi-arid regions. A notable fact to emerge was that the differences between the amount of meat produced by cattle and wildlife was insignificant, although the relative impact of cattle on the natural vegetation was considerable.
Game yields, initially impeded by the degraded state of the game section, were improving, and
at the same time allowing the vegetation to recover. Over the fence, cattle yields, which had been high on good range, were declining because of overgrazing and consequent habitat deterioration.
The early emphasis of game ranching was on cropping. It was imperative to produce good-quality meat, as it had to compete with beef. Most outlets were a considerable distance from the game ranches. The meat had to be on the market within 36 hours of slaughter, which created the need for well-equipped butcheries with meat-freezing facilities.
By the mid 1960s, game ranchers looked towards recreational sport hunting as a source of revenue. Most hunters were local or South African, as Zimbabwe could not compete for overseas clientele with other well-established safari destinations in Africa. With sport hunting, the profitability of game ranching improved. Financially, cropping became of secondary significance.
The overall attitude of cattle ranchers towards wildlife began to change. There was an increase in the number and spread of game with its growing financial importance. The level of poaching declined with the employment of more game guards, as ranchers came to appreciate the value of “their” wildlife.
With this, range management was greatly improved and wildlife interests became an integral part of ranching programs. It was from this that the wildlife conservancy model evolved. Across the country game ranches were amalgamated to create larger nature sanctuaries.
By rejecting a protectionist, non-consumptive philosophy, and recognizing the financial value of game animals, economic forces were stimulated to conserve wildlife.
Twenty-five years ago Zimbabwe was one of the leaders in wildlife conservation and management. The sector earned over US$ 300 million per year through conservation generated by protected areas belonging to the state, rural community-run wildlife management areas, and private game ranches and reserves. Unfortunately, Zimbabwe’s “land reform” program has had a devastating effect on the private game ranching industry. Wildlife populations across the country have been decimated.
In 2005 Dr. Rolf Baldus and the late Dr. Graham Child wrote a paper on the prospects of rebuilding the wildlife sector in Zimbabwe. They noted that wildlife has a great ability to recover within a relatively short period of time. If natural habitats are somewhat intact, sound protection and wise management can be reintroduced. To achieve this, the assistance of bilateral and international donors and “hands-on” conservation NGOs will be needed.
The political decision-makers of Zimbabwe, as well as donor institutions, must not overlook the conservation and sustainable use of wildlife once a new start is possible. Wildlife conservation is not a luxury that may be taken up at a later stage after the most urgent tasks of rehabilitation have been achieved. Zimbabwe’s wildlife heritage is the draw card of the country’s tourist industry, which is a sector that can quickly be turned around and play an important role in the reconstruction of the country.
For this to happen it must be incorporated in economic development and poverty reduction strategies from the start of the reconstruction effort. Many tracts of land formerly devoted to wildlife are now occupied or resettled.
Past experience shows that these areas are unsuited to conventional agriculture, and that wildlife production is the most appropriate form of land use. It is therefore sensible to restore the wildlife populations for the benefit of community-based and/or private management regimes. As is shown, these wildlife-based land-use systems mutually benefit one another and are not exclusive.
Game ranching preserves biological diversity and natural landscapes outside of formally protected government-controlled areas, while also enhancing rural production. It is also an initiative in which Africa has a comparative economic advantage over the rest of the world, because of the continent’s spectacular wildlife.
[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F22-23||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17654,17655,17656,17657,17658″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F28-29||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]CASIO to Release New G-SHOCK RANGEMAN with the World’s First Solar-Assisted GPS Navigation
Designed for the Ultimate in Survival Toughness
CASIO, through its South African distributor James Ralph, has released the latest addition to its RANGEMAN series of watches. The new GPR-B1000 features the world’s first solar-assisted GPS navigation available in two models.
The RANGEMAN is designed for use in the most extreme conditions and incorporates Casio’s Triple Sensor feature to measure compass bearing, atmospheric pressure/altitude and temperature.
In addition to Triple Sensor, the new GPR-B1000 is capable of GPS navigation – a first for a G-SHOCK watch. The watch collects location data from GPS satellites to display the current location on a route or bearing to a destination, in real-time. The watch also saves track-and-point data in memory, (including longitude/latitude, altitude and temperature).
Using Bluetooth, the watch pairs with a smartphone to connect with the G-SHOCK Connected app, allowing the user to create routes or manage log data within the app. Track-and-point data saved in memory is displayed on a 3D map or as a timeline. The watch also receives data from time servers to keep accurate time anywhere in the world.
The GPR-B1000 features dual-wireless and solar charging systems. The GPS functions are usable for up to 33 hours on a wireless charge of about five hours. Even if the battery level drops below a usable level for GPS while outdoors, solar charging can be used to resume GPS functions for a limited time. The time display is kept powered at all times using solar charging, regardless of the status of GPS functions. The GPR-B1000 delivers toughness in construction and materials, with a dust- and mud-resistant structure and carbon fiber insert band.
GPS NAVIGATION
Navigate and Log
The watch collects location data from GPS satellites to display the current location on a route or bearing to a destination, in real-time. Turn on GPS navigation to automatically record tracks with either four-second or one-minute interval recording. (Saves up to 20 tracks in memory.)
Backtrack
The watch helps users navigate back to where they started, using track data to display the route back to the starting point and bearing.
Point Memory
The user can save point data (including date/time, longitude/latitude, altitude, atmospheric pressure, and temperature) by just pushing a button. Set point icons to indicate the type of point. (Saves up to 60 points.)
Bluetooth Smartphone Pairing to Connect with G-SHOCK Connected App
- Receives data from time servers to keep accurate time anywhere in the world. When paired with a smartphone, the watch receives data from time servers to keep accurate time anywhere in the world. Easily configures world time cities, alarms, and timers from the G-SHOCK Connected app.
- Start/End Point, Route Setting – Set the start/end points to use GPS to navigate to a destination and create routes.
- Display Tracks on 2D or 3D Maps – Display saved tracks on a 2D or 3D map in the G-SHOCK Connected app.
- Timeline display of waypoint data – Display saved waypoint data in a timeline. View photos taken with the smartphone while using GPS navigation, in the timeline.
Solar and Wireless Charging
The GPR-B1000 is equipped with dual wireless and solar charging systems to support activities in the outdoors. GPS navigation is usable for approximately 33 hours on a wireless charge of about five hours. If the battery becomes depleted, GPS functions can be resumed by charging the watch in bright light. (GPS functions are usable for one hour on a solar charge of approximately four hours in 50,000 lux conditions.) Regardless of the status of GPS functions, solar charging keeps the time display powered at all times.
Ceramic Case Back – A First for G-SHOCK
The watch uses a ceramic case back to support wireless charging and high-sensitivity GPS reception. The case back uses a 2.0 mm thick ceramic material, making the watch shock-resistant and waterproof down to 200 meters.
Tough Construction to Withstand Harsh Conditions
The watch is designed to withstand harsh conditions with dust- and dirt-proof, mud-resistant construction, low-temperature resistance down to -20°C (-4°F), a carbon fiber insert band, and sapphire crystal.
[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F28-29||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Oct 12, 2018 | News
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F122-123||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Hunting on hallowed ground
By Marc Newton
Images: http://tinyurl.com/nilebuffalo
Photography credit: Marc Newton
The Managing Director of gunmaker John Rigby & Co. is offered the chance of a lifetime: to shoot a Nile Buffalo in Uganda with the first London Best rifle made by the company since returning to London in 2013.
Uganda, to hunters, is a special place. Dubbed “The Pearl of Africa” by Winston Churchill, this is the real Africa, untamed, beautiful and harsh. I’d been invited to join one of Rigby’s most loyal supporters and clients, now my great friend, Merle Sampson, to hunt Nile Buffalo. It was the stuff of my boyhood dreams, and not an offer to be turned down. What made this offer even more spectacular, is that Merle was letting me use his new London Best in .416 Rigby. Not only would this be the first buffalo for this rifle, but it was also the first gun produced by Rigby to be ordered from our London workshop since the company was repatriated to the UK.
We met at Kampala to drive the five hours to our first camp, based on the western shore of Lake Albert. In the distance the Blue Mountains of the Congo towered hazily, and as we sat down to our sundowners, a city of small fishing boats eased out from the edges of the water. Once the sun had set, each boat lit a lamp, and like so many stars they reflected in the dark water. Being on the equator, the heat and humidity was overwhelming, and despite the dangers of snakes, spiders and other nasties, we slept with every window and door open in the vain hope of a cooling breeze.
We hunted for several days in this spectacular area, Merle succeeding with Nile bushbuck and Defassa waterbuck, and both of us shooting Ugandan kob, an antelope that looks like a mixture of an impala and a waterbuck. The mighty buffalo, however, eluded us. The jungle is incredibly thick in this region, and despite frequently coming to within 20 yards of these unpredictable creatures, and being within sound and smell of them, getting a clean shot was proving difficult. We spent three days tracking the beasts, patiently waiting for them to come out of the thicket. On one such occasion, while we lay in wait, the tracker leapt into into the air like a springing sand grouse. A black mamba had slithered past him – a creature to be highly respected.
We decided it was time to try our luck further north, where the more open terrain would, we hoped, give us a greater chance of finding a Nile buffalo. Two-and-a-half hours on a Cessna 206 aircraft held together by gaffer tape and the pilot’s prayers brought us to the Karamoja region, famous for being the stamping ground of Walter “Karamoja” Bell, the renowned elephant hunter, who frequently used a .275 Rigby in his pursuits. Our tented camp was not far from the Lidepo Valley National Park, a few miles from the border of South Sudan and Kenya. What a place.
The infamous dictator, Idi Amin had a hunting palace in the area we were hunting and it could be seen in ruins overlooking the plains, a stark reminder of an extremely difficult time in Uganda’s history. The country’s wildlife populations suffered catastrophically under his regime and directly afterwards, when chaos reigned: rhinos were entirely wiped out, elephant populations dropped from an estimated 35,000 to 1,000. Elephants are perhaps Uganda’s greatest success story, with an 800% increase bringing the population to an estimated 8,000 today, thanks to a zero-tolerance policy on poaching. Hunting, which was reopened in 1994, brings in a large proportion of the financial support for the conservation taking place today. Our drive from the gravel airstrip to the camp gave us glimpses of the now abundant wildlife: hartebeests, roan, duikers, kob, tsessebe and vast herds of Nile buffalo, giving us the impression this might be easy. How wrong we were!
Finding an old bull
My intention was to shoot an old bull, one with character and past breeding age, rather than a trophy-sized head. Of course the old boys are the ones who know what hunting is about, and they seemed to have a built-in GPS system that led them, again and again, to the safety of the National Park. Two days of seeing plenty and stalking a few was a draining business, and though the territory was more open here, and therefore made for easier tracking, it was tough going. I could have got a shot at an estimated 45in bull, but he was a prime herd bull, and feeling sure of finding an older bull, I passed up the chance. We found an old bull with recent war wounds to his head, and tracked him until he, too, gave us the slip and crossed the park boundary.
As the last day of our trip dawned, I started to think about all of the bulls we had passed up. I didn’t regret my decision. Hunting is hunting, and I would have gleaned no pleasure from shooting an animal in its breeding prime. Rather come back another time and be even more satisfied when I finally caught up with my old dagga boy. I’d all but given up hope, until, at 5pm, our tracker spotted several old bulls in the distance through the bush. I readied the Rigby and started the stalk with our PH. I handle rifles all the time, but now I saw and felt the .416 in a different way. We crept closer and closer to a particularly old bull, a looming great beast, his battle scars evident from our position about 70 yards from him. The PH put up the sticks, and told me to take the shot when I was ready, but as sometimes happens, his view was different from mine, and I could only see the head and neck. Placing the rifle on the sticks, I waited. After what seemed like a lifetime, the old bull took a step forward, quartering towards us, giving me a clear view of his front.
I can’t remember squeezing the trigger, I was so focussed on the bull. It’s with absolute clarity, however, that I remember seeing his legs lift, and I can still hear the sound of the 400-grain bullet hitting something so massive. The bull staggered 40 yards, falling into a dip where we could still see him. We agreed to wait, and not to take a back-up shot unless there was immediate danger. Now, however, there was a different problem: a young bull was approaching from our other side. The fallen bull’s tail was still twitching, and as much to chase off the young bull as to make sure of the kill, the PH asked me to take the back-up shot. The solid ammunition went through the great creature’s spine, and sent the younger bull packing.
We waited five minutes before approaching the bull from his back end. Time and time again, I’d been warned that it’s the dead ones that will kill you, so we were extremely cautious.. While I’d been calm and focussed during the hunt, by now my hands were shaking thanks to the adrenaline coursing through my body. The bull was in his 13th year and had done his bit for the gene pool. The tips of his horns were well broomed and he weighed in at a vast 1,600lb. He was cut in half where he had fallen by the trackers, and everything was taken back to camp for butchering. That evening we feasted on his liver and onions, the best I’ve ever had. The remainder of the meat, including the stomach and the lungs, was distributed among the locals, with not a scrap wasted – whatever the greens wish to believe.
What an experience, and what a way to fulfil my boyhood dream. Hunting in the footsteps of Walter Bell, for such a magnificent animal is something that will be sharp in my memory forever. Merle later informed me, though I don’t recall it, that as we waited to check whether the bull was dead, I repeated over and over again, “My first buffalo, my first buffalo.”
Box out: The rifle
I was incredibly honoured to be allowed to use Merle’s .416 Rigby. This was the first buffalo for the rifle, and the rifle was the first to be produced by our London workshop in the new Rigby era. The rifle was commissioned by Merle in 2013, and is a London Best, with a single square bridge Mauser action. It has Holland & Holland pattern scope mounts and is engraved with the Big Five by renowned engraver Hendrik Frühauf.
Box out: The Nile Buffalo
Distinguished from its close relative, the Cape buffalo, by the fact that its horns rarely reach below its jaw, and the horns are more commonly separated at the base. No less dangerous, the Nile buffalo (Syncerus caffer aequinoctialis), is slightly lighter in colour and in weight than the Cape buffalo. Distributed across Uganda, Ethiopia, Eastern Chad, South Sudan, Somalia and Cameroon, Nile buffalo tend to move out of the dense jungle to the savanna regions when the rains come (March to November in the Lidepo Valley). Females first calve at four or five years old, and then usually only once every two years. Herds commonly consist of a few hundred, though they will congregate in their thousands, while the males spend much of their time in bachelor groups, though old bulls often prefer to be on their own.
KIT BOX
Rigby London Best rifle in .416
www.johnrigbyandco.com
Leica Geovid 8×42 binoculars
www.leica-sportoptics.com
Hornady DGX 400-grain ammunition
www.hornady.com[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fafricanhuntinggazette.com%2Foctober-november-december-2018%2F%23october-november-december-2018%2F122-123||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”17782,17781,17780,17779″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
