Crouching Lion, Hidden Hunters…

Aug 2, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Crouching Lion, Hidden Hunters…
By Thomas Newcomb
I had always heard that you are never afraid when a lion charged you! It happens so fast, you react instinctively and won’t have time to get nervous. I had been charged by several Cape buffalo, and chased by more elephants than I can count, but never by a lion, so I had no reason to argue. In all previous encounters, the faster they happened, the less the stress. To me, there is nothing worse than waiting outside a hopeless tangle of vegetation for the buffalo you’d just shot to weaken or die before you go look for him. It’s the waiting that is hard.
My wife Vickie and I had traveled to Tanzania. There we met up with my old hunting partner Natie Oelofse. We had been on many safaris with Natie. We met him in 1990 on our second safari, a rhino hunt in South Africa, followed by an exploratory hunt to Mozambique in the Marromeu Delta. We were the first hunters to be allowed there after the war between the Frelimo and Renamo factions had finished killing each other. With all the excitement and danger we faced on that hunt, we became fast friends. When we weren’t hunting together, Natie and his wife Corné would spend time at our house in Tennessee, and we would visit at their home in Arusha.
I didn’t keep track, but we had probably been on at least 10 safaris together. We had killed the Big Five and many buffalo. Now we were on the track of what we hoped was a big bull elephant. Natie had bought the Wengert Windrose Safari Company. As the owner and the boss, he could do what we wanted as long as we obeyed the Tanzanian game laws. And what we wanted was a good adventure to spend with our wives, and both Corné and Vickie were accomplished big-game hunters and wing shots.
We set off in our Land Cruiser with our wives, Kariba, Natie’s fearless hawk-eyed tracker, a cook, and a skinner. We were traveling light and fast. Our Land Cruiser was full of fuel, a drum of water, rice, and cornmeal, beer and Scotch. We would shoot game for meat. Robert Ruark would be proud. My wife had a 21-day license. At that time you could shoot three buffalo, a leopard, a lion, and an elephant among all the usual plains game. We had hunted for 10 days or so, gradually getting used to the 10-15 miles a day you put in tracking and running from elephants. Anyone that has hunted elephants probably knows what I’m talking about.
My wife’s rifle of choice was a Winchester Model .70 African .375 H&H with which I have seen her shoot a running guinea fowl. My rifle and Natie’s were always the same. We each had .470 SxS from Austria, .416 Remington Mags from Conco Arms, and SxS Browning 20 gauge shotguns for sandgrouse. In the States we each carried a Glock 23. We thought if something went bump in the night we could grab whatever weapon was closest and know how it worked.
It was a typical day in the Selous, cold first thing in the morning. We got up from our fly camp, had a breakfast of ugali (a local porridge) and coffee, and headed off to find a big bull elephant. Riding in the back of the Land Cruiser we wore gloves, sweaters, and scarves. A couple of hours later we were down to T-shirts. We had stalked probably 10 bulls in the first 10 days, only to get in a good shooting position and decide they were too small, hence illegal. Very exciting, but very frustrating. When we very close to elephants, Natie made us take off our shoes, and stalk closer in just socks. My first thought was if I had to run I would get thorns in my feet. And I was right, but I never noticed them until I was safely seated back in the Land Cruiser, after running madly from enraged cow elephants.
It was while we were stalking what we hoped would be a good bull elephant that we saw a large lion dart off into the high grass about 100 yards from us. We were so intent on seeing the tusks on the elephant, we had not seen him until he ran. We made a mental note to check out the lion if the elephant turned out to not be a shooter – which he wasn’t – so we went back to where the lion was when we last saw him. And in the high grass we found a dead buffalo cow the lion had been feeding on.
“He’ll be back, we’ll wait,” said Natie. We backed up from the dead cow across a little clearing. We couldn’t see the buffalo, but we could see most of the angles the cat would have to approach from, so we sat in the shade under a tree to wait. Once we sat down, we couldn’t see anything – the grass was too high! What to do?
“I’ll climb the tree,” Natie said to me. “You wait at the bottom with the girls, and when the lion comes back you stand up, put up the shooting sticks, and Vic can shoot it.” OK, there was no other way. Natie’s .470 was at the base of the tree, with him squatting in the fork like a big baboon. Vic, Corné, Kariba, and I were lying in the grass at the base of the tree. We waited about an hour.
“Thomas, he’s back,” Natie hissed from above. I looked at my wife.
“Are you ready?” She nodded, her eyes shining with excitement. I have never seen her afraid. We stood, and I put up the shooting sticks. She rested the .375 on them.
“Can you see him?” I asked. The lion was facing broadside and tearing at the buffalo hide. She nodded. “Yes, should I shoot?” “Wait until he is still, then fire.”
She waited a few seconds. Then the lion had his two front paws on the side of the buffalo. We could see him clearly, his chest and shoulders fully exposed. He turned his head toward us and it seemed as if those yellow eyes looked right at us.
“Shoot him,” I said. The .375 boomed and the cat jumped straight up in the air like a frightened house cat. That’s when I made a mistake. I fired my .470 at the lion while he was in the air, and missed. When the cat hit the ground he knew where we were, and who had hurt him. He was now coming for us.
My wife’s first shot had broken his left shoulder. He hit the ground running straight to us, growling with every bound. Natie was in the tree yelling, “Wait Tom, wait!” He knew I only had one round left in my double and it would have to be our last chance when the lion was on us, but my wife’s .375 cracked again. The lion kept coming. He was charging toward us, but fortunately his left leg was flopping because his left shoulder was broken. Again the .375 went off while Natie was still yelling, “Wait, Tom, wait!” Vic had hit the lion, but he was still coming.
All our practice and experience was paying off. Vic never took the rifle from her shoulder and was working the bolt. Again the .375 went off and this time the cat faltered, turning on his side, and Vic hit him again. It was over. Natie jumped out of the tree and the three of us cautiously approached the now still lion. He was gone. We all heaved sighs of relief.
I remember reading a story once where at SCI an old PH was listening to new PHs discussing where you shoot a charging lion. One young boy said you aim at the bottom of his chest, while another said no, you aim at the black of the nose. The discussion went on and on, until the old PH, having heard all he could stand, walked over to the new guys and asked, “Have either of you ever seen a charging lion?” They both sheepishly said, “No.” The old PH smiled. “When the lion charges, you aim at the front and keep shooting,” he said.
I think he was right. We recreated the event from the tracks in the sand. Vic’s first shot was at 60 yards and she made a perfect shoulder shot, breaking the left shoulder. When I shot and missed, the lion came for us on three legs and covered 10 yards per bound. He made four leaps towards us and dropped at around 20 steps from us. Vic had hit him twice as he charged, the first around the edges of the hips, and the second was a good frontal chest shot. When he rolled over the final time, I had shot him through the spine for insurance.
The whole event may have taken 10 seconds, if that. Vic’s hands never shook until we started to take pictures. The adrenaline pump, was over and now she could relax. We all could. Natie summed it up: “The best day of your life you never want to do again.”[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”16648,16647,16646,16645″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Free-Range Hunting in the Eastern Cape

Aug 2, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Free-Range Hunting in the Eastern Cape
By Vanessa Harrop

You never know what kind of hidden gem you will find, until you expand your horizons.
TJ and I had already experienced and enjoyed several typical plains game safaris, but we now wanted something a little different. We just didn’t know what it was until, at the Africa Hunting Show in Calgary, a small picture of a hunter with a Barbary sheep caught our eye. We stopped, and Raymond Kemp and Edward Wilson of Lalapa Safaris introduced themselves. After speaking with them for a while, we got really excited. Not only did they offer hunts that were a little different, they had some totally unique hunts that we’d never considered.
Lalapa specializes in free-range and indigenous species, and also offers hunts for all 40-plus species in the Eastern Cape. We ended up booking a hunt for Vaal rhebok, mountain reedbuck, Barbary sheep, blue duiker, caracal, bushbuck and bush pig. It would start at Lalapa’s main lodge near Cathcart and then move down closer to Grahamstown to finish our adventure. And what made us even more excited were some of the unusual hunts Ray planned for us. He suggested blue duiker over a small pool deep in dense forest; caracal with hounds; bush pig with infrared, and spending a few nights in the mountains for Barbary sheep. Hunts all new to us, and all free-range.
All our previous South African hunts had been in the heart of the Kalahari in the North West Province. We never expected the Eastern Cape to be so incredibly diverse, with landscapes ranging from the dry and desolate Great Karoo, to the lush forests of the Wild Coast and the Keiskamma Valley; the fertile Langkloof, renowned for its rich apple harvests, to the mountainous southern Drakensberg region. From the endless beaches and craggy bays of the coastline, the province gradually crosses an interior of grassland, rivers and dense forests to reach its northern boundary in the majestic Drakensberg. And the animals available to hunt were no less diverse, each carving out their own niche in this varied landscape.
The Eastern Cape region was settled by the British in 1820 and one only need drive through the countryside and chat with the locals to see that British influence is still very strong today. Sometimes it’s hard to believe you are in Africa when you look out over the lush, green, rolling hills dotted with sheep and cattle. Although there are fenced hunting ranches in the region, there are vast areas of open farm and ranch land where wildlife still flourishes. Those that believe there’s no free-range hunting left in South Africa have never been to the Eastern Cape.
Our first few days were spent hunting Vaal rhebok and mountain reedbuck, and TJ managed to take very respectable animals of both species. It was a great way to acclimatize to the elevation before heading to the more rugged Stormberg Mountains to scout for Barbary sheep. It was Ray’s plan to check out the area and, if need be, return with camping gear for a couple days of spike camping. Barbary sheep were originally brought to the Stormberg from Chad in the early 1960s. They were kept behind a high fence until 1994, when the property was converted to a cattle ranch and the fence fell into disrepair. The Barbary sheep rapidly expanded their numbers and range, and now there is a large herd of approximately 1,000 free-ranging sheep in that area.
As we headed up the mountain behind the main ranch buildings, the terrain became very rough and rocky. Vegetation was sparse, but to my surprise there was some water, with flowing creeks in several of the draws. After ascending the steep terrain in the Land Cruiser for a couple of hours, we parked and headed off on foot. A couple of trackers spotted a large herd of sheep right away, so we went for a look.
The rut was just kicking in and there were several large rams with the ewes. Ray picked out what appeared to be the best one and we made a hurried stalk. At 80 yards I put a big ram down with the .338. As they headed off toward an adjacent mountain, Edward counted 87 sheep in total.
Ray had a good idea where they were headed, so after dealing with my ram, we drove another hour or so and then headed off on foot over two more mountains before spotting the sheep again. They’d split into two groups and we were looking at about 20 and there was one exceptional ram in the group. Directly between us and the sheep were blesbok, black wildebeest, mountain reedbuck, fallow deer, Vaal rhebok and about a dozen Cape Mountain zebra. Ray decided to drive around the mountain and meet us near where the sheep currently were. We would continue on foot and try to get to the sheep. It would take several hours to drive around, and would be nearly dark before he got there. We figured we had little chance of scoring on two rams in one day, but Edward and the trackers were keen to give it a try.
As expected, the zebra spooked as we topped the final ridge and scattered the sheep. They headed over the next mountain, and with the truck now gone, all we could do was follow, in the hope they stopped. We descended into a deep canyon and as we were coming up the far side, we ran right into the sheep that had at some point returned. Spooked by our sudden appearance, they ran across another valley and started up into the cliffs. We scrambled to get up above the creek and TJ found an ant hill to rest the rifle on. The big ram was at 460 yards and he was still climbing. As TJ pulled the stock to his shoulder, the ram was now close to 500 yards. He settled the crosshair on the ram’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The big ram dropped right on the spot and tumbled a hundred or so yards down the hill. Our three-day sheep hunt had turned into one day. For all the hunts that never work as planned, you learn to take luck when it comes your way.
We had a few extra days to kill before we headed south for the second half of our adventure. It had been my birthday a couple days previously, so TJ asked me what I’d like to hunt for a birthday present – I chose a black springbok. So, early the next day we headed to a neighboring farm, and after playing hide-and-seek with one exceptional ram for much of the morning, around noon I finally got in position on a high point above him. The ram was standing in the shade under a tree at 240 yards and, once comfortable on the sticks, I gently squeezed the trigger and the ram was down – my best impromptu birthday present ever.
With our wish list filled and still two days remaining before heading for the coast, we decided to add a couple more species to the list with bows. We fixed up a blind and sat at a waterhole for a day. Though many impala, eland and mountain reedbuck came in, we opted not to take anything the first day.
The next afternoon we went back to the bow blind. Eventually two big warthogs appeared. They drank for several minutes then shuffled off to eat grass. Finally the larger of the two offered a broadside shot at 36 yards. I slowly raised my bow and let the arrow fly. But the boar jumped the string and the arrow caught him quite far back. I was devastated, but we picked up blood immediately and called in the reinforcements. Penny and Mechanic, two incredible blood-tracking dogs came to the rescue, and before long I had my big warthog.
The following day we headed toward the coast with our new PH, Ross. Our destination was an amazing tent camp perched high above a waterhole that had lion and elephant and loads of plains game as regular visitors. After dinner we headed out to hunt bush pigs. Ross had two baits going, both with huge boars on them. Bush pig was on my wish list, and we were going to be hunting with a rifle equipped with infrared technology. The first evening, at about 10:00 p.m. we heard a group of pigs starting to make their way to the bait, but at the last minute, the wind swirled, and they got our scent, sending them scurrying away.
The following morning we sat at a blue duiker blind. A good male made a brief appearance but offered no opportunity for a shot. We hunted bushbuck at mid-day and ended up passing on a great male at about 30 yards, a decision that would later haunt us. We saw large numbers of kudu, impala, eland and zebra, and some truly spectacular waterbuck and nyala – we are still wondering why we didn’t decide to add those last two to the list. That afternoon we sat at the blue duiker blind again but had no luck. They had been coming regularly into water before we arrived, but some unseasonably hot temperatures seemed to have interrupted their schedule.
Back to the lodge for a quick dinner, then out to the bush pig blind. We’d been sitting for about an hour when I saw Ross point to his ear. I heard nothing, but Ross said he could hear the pigs crunching corn, about 70 yards away. I quietly reached up and switched on the IR scope, and there were seven pigs at the bait. Much to my chagrin, the big boar was hidden behind the piglets. It took every ounce of patience not to shoot, but eventually I had a clear shot and dropped him on the spot.
I enjoy hunting cougar with hounds in Canada, and when I learnt we could hunt caracal with hounds in the Eastern Cape, I was beyond excited. As with cougars, hunting caracal needs an expert houndsman with a skilled pack of hounds, and that’s where Jeff Ford entered the picture. Jeff has run two packs of hunting dogs for almost 20 years in the region. The hounds were controlled by two dedicated houndsmen, Tim Mbambosi and Maron Fihlani. Jeff uses his hounds to hunt both caracal and jackal in the dense bush and often extremely rugged broken terrain.
Jeff’s dogs head out with their handlers each morning before sunrise. Typically, they will receive a call from local farmers who have either lost livestock to predators or have heard the bark of a bushbuck in the vicinity, and they will begin the search there. As this is all dry land tracking, the handlers must work meticulously through the area until the dogs strike on a scent. Because of Jeff’s success in controlling these predators, small game species such as oribi, blue duiker, Cape grysbok and Cape bushbuck have flourished in the area.
As the morning sun was just starting to rise, a blanket of mist shrouded the lower-lying areas and we got a call from Jeff that the hounds were on a caracal. We raced to the meet location, only to be told that the caracal had jumped from the tree and been killed by the hounds. But, Jeff’s other houndsman, Maron, was out looking for a scent so we headed toward his location.
We could hear the hounds in the distance, working the trail in the bottom of a very steep canyon. The footing was treacherous, and I fell on my butt several times on the way down the steep slope. It was more of a controlled slide, with branches and vines slapping my face as I skidded down. Once in the bottom, we hit a rocky creek that was surrounded by a nearly impenetrable wall of thick vegetation and vines. Dropping to our hands and knees and squeezing our way through the heavy bush, I could hear Jeff and Ross further down the ravine, with Maron and the hounds off in the distance. I pushed myself harder to shorten the distance, my breath running ragged and the sweat pouring down the sides of my face and my back.
By now, we could clearly hear the dogs barking, followed by a deep baying that sent chills up my spine! I finally caught up to the group and was quickly prodded on. Ross whispered that we had to get there quickly before the cat jumped the tree. The noise from the dogs intensified into a crescendo, and I knew the cat was treed. We needed to sneak in unnoticed or the cat would jump for sure, so we crawled on hands and knees until I could just make it out high up in the tree. Ross handed me the shotgun and I managed to catch what little breath I had left, took aim and pulled the trigger. Hunting a caracal had always been a dream and doing it free-range with hounds was more than I could have ever imagined.
We realized that the more we hunt South Africa, the less we know. I had just assumed that all South Africa was the same as the North West Province, but I now know that South Africa, in particular the Eastern Cape, is incredibly varied both in terrain and huntable species. If you want to have a truly unique and diverse adventure, you need look no further than the Eastern Cape. And, if you believe that there is no true free-range hunting remaining in South Africa, you have obviously never been to the Eastern Cape.
For more information, check out Lalapa Hunting Safaris at www.lalapasafaris.co.za[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”16627,16628,16629,16630,16631,16632,16633,16634,16635,16636,16637,16638″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Warthogs Not Just Any Pig

Aug 2, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Warthogs – Not Just Any Pig
By Archie Landals

Our magical first trip to Africa was in September 2011. My wife Carole and I were on a two-week photo safari of Namibia. The attractions were spectacular, from the iconic red sand dunes in Namib Naukluft Park to the lesser-known fascinating petroglyphs at Twyfelfontein, designated as Namibia’s first World Heritage Site in 2007. The more than 2500 rock carvings were made by the ancestors of the San (Bushmen) and date back more than 2000 years.

Large mugs of hot coffee to combat the chilly morning were served as we embarked on a boat tour in Walvis Bay that allowed us to get up close and personal with seals and pelicans that came onboard for handouts. The plankton-rich waters of Walvis Bay enables oysters to be harvested after eight months compared with three years in other parts of the world. We were treated to oysters, both raw and cooked, and empty coffee mugs were regularly refilled, and fine South African sherry was on offer.

Etosha National Park was our first great wildlife viewing opportunity. I only needed to look out of the bus window at the constantly changing scenery to be enthralled – everything was new and exciting. We photographed many species of plains game and four of the Big Five – Cape buffalo are not in the park. The first few days I spotted gemsbok, ostrich and a distant herd of mountain zebra. Springbok were everywhere. And I saw my first warthogs. My initial experience with warthog meat was on a braai at Taleni Etosha Village. It was delicious!

Back in Canada we traded emails with PH and guide Louw van Zyl, owner of Track a Trails Safaris, and settled a 12-day package that would give us 10 days of hunting and two travel days. Four trophies were included in the package: kudu, oryx, impala and warthog. I was determined to shoot a kudu and thought I would be content with one other trophy. I rather liked the idea of a springbok as a second smaller trophy.

Initially, I had no interest in shooting a warthog. “Why do you want to shoot a warthog?” friends asked. I really had no answer, but Carole kept telling me they were so ugly they were beautiful. “You need to shoot one,” she convinced me.

In 2012, our hunting destination was Aandster Farm, a six-hour drive from Windhoek, about an hour east of Grootfontein in north-eastern Namibia, in the Kalahari Bushveld. The ancient, low relief dunes of the Bushveld are covered with thick scrub, most of which has sharp thorns. The only open areas are a few old fields that have reverted to what now looks like grassland savanna. These fields are renewed by periodic burning, giving habitat favored by springbok and impala.

It was the dry season, and Stephan Jacobs, the owner of Aandster, told us that the only likelihood of finding a warthog was at a waterhole. He was right. Over the next few days as we tracked kudu, we saw glimpses of warthogs as they hightailed it through the thick scrub and grass. Although I tried to convince myself that I saw tusks, I am sure there was not a good boar among them. These were not like the rather docile warthogs we had seen in Etosha where they lived a life of leisure, habituated to the traffic along the main roads in a protected area.

There were half a dozen man-made waterholes at Aandster, several of them with tree stands. We climbed one in the middle of the day, but saw little.

On Day 7, we drove to a neighboring farm. It was seldom hunted and we hoped to find good warthog boars. A large tank in a remote part of the farm stored water for filling cattle troughs. It leaked, causing mud holes that attracted the wildlife. We built a ground blind of Kalahari Apple-leaf and settled in and spent a magical afternoon watching wildlife and listening to the birds. Giraffe, jackal and warthog all came to drink. A kudu bull effortlessly jumped the fence around the water trough. There were flocks of guinea fowl, doves, grouse and songbirds. A herd of about 20 Nguni cattle came to drink. An indigenous African breed, they are truly beautiful animals, with hides of many colors and patterns. Memories came flooding back a year later when I watched the highlights of the funeral of Nelson Mandela. His casket was draped with the hide of a magnificent Nguni bull.

We saw a lot of warthogs, mostly sows and piglets, and a few boars that I decided to pass in the hopes of a better one, though towards dusk I was starting to regret that I had not shot one of them. Then just before dark, Louw confirmed a decent boar and suggested that I take it. I could not get a clear view from where I sat and decided to stand and use the shooting sticks. After sitting for seven hours my legs would not work and I almost fell on my head. Controlling my laughter and getting my legs under me, I steadied the borrowed .300 Winchester Magnum on the shooting sticks and made the shot. Photos done, we loaded the pig and went back for supper and Amarula around the fire.

The following day we built a ground blind at one of the waterholes at Aandster hoping to get a warthog for my brother. Shortly before five a herd of blesbok, including one good ram, came for a drink. Louw said I could take it if I wished, and quickly got me on the sticks. Just before the ram disappeared behind the brush, I added him to my growing list of trophies, now six. I am not sure what happened to settling for a kudu and one small trophy!

Oscar, our driver, dropped us off at the tree stand on his way to the skinning shed with the blesbok. Warthogs were soon sneaking out of the bush toward the waterhole, and just before dark a good boar came for a drink, but was hidden behind the bow blind that obscured part of the water hole. Eventually it headed back towards the trees, and my brother was able to take it. Those big boars were extremely wary, only arriving to feed or drink after dark.

My brother decided that he wanted a blesbok as well, and the next morning he took a good ram. We decided to make the drive back to Windhoek over two days to avoid a 4 a.m. start to get there in time for our flight. Waterberg Guest Farm, about half way to Windhoek was a great place to stop. On an afternoon game drive, we watched herds of oryx and hartebeest with their calves. The oryx calves already had well-developed horns. Spotting and photographing the diminutive Damara dik-dik was a bonus. A magical sundowner watching the flamingoes as the sun set blood-red behind the mountains was a perfect end to an exciting first hunt in Africa.

A visit to the local taxidermist was not necessary after our hunt. We had met Casper Oosthuizen at his studio the year before while on our photo safari. One of his staff picked up our trophies from Aandster. The warthog now hangs on the wall with our other trophies. The open mouth showing the needle-sharp lower tusks gives the warthog a rather rakish grin. He is the first animal noticed and talked about by our non-hunting friends. Those that hunt agree that he is a fine trophy worth every hunter’s attention. The kids, of course, know him affectionately as Pumba, the Disney character from The Lion King.

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A Tailgate and a Trip

Aug 2, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]A Tailgate and a Trip
By Matt Shaw

“There’s your cat! You will have to try him from here. He will be sitting facing us. Just put the crosshairs on his eyes,” whispered my PH Garth. We had been out night hunting for the last two and a half hours. I flexed my fingers to get some feeling back into my hands, (riding around in the cold wind of the Mpumalanga Province of South Africa at night in the back of the Land Cruiser was not what I had had in mind while packing back home in Alberta) brought the rifle up, found a solid rest, and slowly squeezed the trigger…

This was my second trip to South Africa. My first safari was to the Eastern Cape, which was supposed to be the trip of a lifetime. But as that safari wound down I knew that I would be back, stalking the majestic animals of Africa again at some point in my life – I just had no idea that it would be in less than two years.

I had dreamt of hunting Africa since I was 10 years old, and because of this I talked to every African Outfitter I could find at the various Sportsman shows around Alberta, and I even started visiting the Africa Shows held in Edmonton and Calgary. I became friends with some of the outfitters and enjoyed visiting with them when they were in town. In January of 2016, The Africa Show was held in Calgary. I attended, and went out for drinks and dinner with a couple of outfitter friends after the show closed. We shared stories of the past season’s hunting adventures, and when we left the restaurant later on, discovered that someone had decided to steal the tailgate from my new truck.

I was ANGRY like you wouldn’t believe, because the truck was less than three months old – it replaced the truck that had been stolen out of my driveway in the fall! The next day, while sitting on the couch and growing angrier with every ad I looked at for used tailgates (they aren’t cheap) my cell phone rang. It was Birgit from The Africa Show telling me that I had won the door prize, a 7-day Safari with Legelela Safaris in the Free State of South Africa! Miraculously my mood improved, and to this day I say that I will gladly trade a tailgate for a trip to Africa!

A year and a half later I was headed back to Africa with my good friend Brent who was joining me on his first safari. We would be hunting in the Free State, Mpumalanga and KwaZulu-Natal for 10 days, looking for a variety of plains game as well as the serval I wanted. We would also be crossing off another bucket list item for me, as we were going to spend a day angling for Tiger fish while we were there.

And now, here I was in the cold and dark, with a chance to finally get my cat.

I lined the crosshairs of the scope onto the serval’s eyes, and slowly squeezed the trigger of Garth’s .375 loaded with a solid. The rifle kicked up at the shot, and there was a solid “Whap.” “You got him, he dropped!” was Garth’s somewhat surprised exclamation. I stayed where I made the shot so that we would not lose the location in the dark and could guide Brent and the ranch owner up the hill to the spot. Meantime, I asked Garth why he was surprised that I had made the shot. “A 200-yard shot at night is something that most people miss, especially when they are doing it for the first time,” he said.

After a quick search, the serval was found right where he had dropped. While waiting for the other two to collect the cat, I asked Garth why you would shoot a small animal like a serval with a .375 H&H.

“Loaded with a solid, the large caliber would do less damage than a smaller caliber like a .223 loaded with a soft bullet,” he explained. I couldn’t believe how beautiful the spotted cat was when I finally got my first up close look at him. He was long and lean with an absolutely gorgeous coat. We took a few field photos, and Garth said we would take more detailed trophy pictures the following morning in daylight.

We continued to hunt that evening, and Brent almost took a jackal, but it disappeared into a valley full of long grass, never to be seen again. We were out again the following evening. This time I was armed with my bow, and the goal was to try for a steenbok. I had declined one on the first day of my previous safari, and had never had another chance. I had regretted that decision over the last two years, as those tiny antelope are beautiful. We attempted several stalks but I wasn’t able to get a shot off. There was a full moon, so that allowed the animals to see me off to one side drawing my bow while Garth held the spotlight on the animal. Brent had another close call that night as we spooked some bush pigs in a corn field, but we weren’t able to chase them out. They just circled Garth in the corn before disappearing.

Hunting at night was a great experience as it is not something that we are able to do in Alberta. It gave us the opportunity to see a totally different group of animals that we would not see by daylight. Some of them were caracal, jackal, steenbok, porcupine and springhare.

After hunting for three days, and doing the two night hunts, Brent had taken a blue and a black wildebeest, and I got my serval. We had several close calls on zebra and fallow deer, the latter now being bred in South Africa, but ended up leaving them for the next trip, and headed to a new lodge for spiral-horned animals in thicker bushveld. The drive went smoothly, with Garth stopping along the way to pick up some delicious biltong for us to enjoy. Brent was somewhat leery of the dried meat as he had misheard, and thought we were eating bull tongue. This was quickly sorted out, and the bag of biltong didn’t last long.

At the new lodge we settled in quickly and headed out for a drive to see what we could find before the sun set. It didn’t take long to start seeing different game that first evening – giraffe, impala, kudu cows and buffalo – leaving us excited for the next morning. We hunted hard the next few days, with me sitting in a blind by a water source, and walking and stalking nyala with my bow, but with no success for me. (Nothing new for a bowhunter!) I was enjoying the challenge and was seeing lots of game. Brent was able to take a nice mature kudu bull and a cool, non-typical blesbok.

Before we knew it, we had been in Africa for a week, and it was time to go and see if the fish were biting. We left at dawn as we had to drive for a couple of hours to get to the reservoir where we would be fishing, and wanted to be out on the water nice and early. I have been fascinated by Tiger fish since seeing one in the trophy room of some good friends at home in Alberta, and couldn’t wait for the chance to hook one of these underwater predators. At the boat launch in the bay we were leaving from we were greeted by an ornery bull hippo. He marked his territory, then submerged and appeared to leave the bay. We hopped onto the pontoon boat and slowly made our way out onto the lake. Right as we were leaving the mouth of the bay I spotted the hippo running back into the water, and alerted Brent. The hippo then decided to charge the boat. (It really is amazing how wide they can open their mouths.) Garth was shouting

“Go! Go! Go!” Garth shouted to our captain as Brent and I watched and fumbled for our cameras. The hippo managed to get so close to our boat that I probably could have reached out and hit him with one of the paddles. Brent and I laughed as the hippo finally fell back, as our boat got up on plane. Then Brent noticed the look on Garths’ face. He didn’t seem to think it was as cool as we did, and proceeded to tell us that the hippo would have had no trouble flipping our 20-foot pontoon boat over, tossing us into the water, and possibly attacking us.

That was the most excitement that we had that day. The fishing turned out great, and we were able to land 13 Tigers and had at least that many that got away. It proved to be a challenge for me to set the hook into the hard mouths of these fish as I am used to being gentler with a small hook and flyrod. Brent and I landed the majority of the fish with Garth only able to bring one into the boat. At the end of the day we were all a little apprehensive about what we might find in the bay, but the belligerent hippo was nowhere to be found.

After our great day of fishing we were down to three hunting days. Brent and I each managed to take a few more great trophies, thanks to Garth. I took a very nice springbok, which just happened to be my birthday gift from my wife. This animal was at the top of my list, because despite trying very hard on my first safari, I had failed to get one. I wrapped the trip up by taking a beautiful nyala on our last afternoon. After taking some pictures and getting him up to the skinning shed, I was able to spend the last evening enjoying one of Africa’s amazing sunsets and reflecting on all of the great memories made over the past week and a half.

This trip was first class from the moment we arrived at the airport and were picked up by one of Reinier’s guides. The accommodations and the food were all exceptional as was the quality of the animals that we saw and took during our stay. Our PH Garth Lee was amazing, easy to get along with, and really determined that we had the experience of our lives. On our way home, Brent and I were already discussing plans for a return trip to Africa with Legelela Safaris.

I would like to thank a few people for making this trip possible. Thanks to the people who continue to put on The Africa Shows here in Canada, despite the challenges posed by various anti-hunting groups. A huge thank you to Reinier Linde of Legelela Safaris for generously donating this hunt. And thanks also to my favorite outdoor writer, Craig Boddington, for instilling a passion to hunt Africa into a young Canadian hunter.

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Mesengesi Croc

Jul 31, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Mesengesi Croc
By Darby Wright

The Mesengesi River is a tributary of the mighty Zambezi River that runs from Angola, between Zambia and Zimbabwe and across Mozambique and empties into the azure Indian Ocean. This river is literally the lifeblood of villagers living on its banks, supplying all water for drinking and washing, as well as for crops grown in the fertile soil along the bank. And every year, along these river banks, hundreds of villagers are attacked by crocodiles. And so it was that Rob, our PH came to my tent early one morning. “You and Kayleigh get packed and ready right away. We must make the 2½ hour drive to the village ASAP, and look for a problem crocodile!”
My daughter Kayleigh and I were hunting Cape buffalo on a 1,000,000 acre concession in central Mozambique when our professional hunter received the news that another villager had been attacked and killed while washing clothes on the river bank. Her family and the other villagers were distraught, and the village chief wanted something done about it right away. It was bad enough that the woman had been attacked and dragged under water, never to be seen again, but her four children aged between two and seven would have to mostly fend for themselves – their father worked on a kapenta boat on Lake Cahora Bassa, only coming home several times a month. (Kapenta is a small fish, netted from boats at night, and a great source of protein.)
We spoke to the chief of the village who was upset that another villager had been attacked and killed by a huge crocodile. It inhabited the Mesengesi River, and had been menacing people up and down a 15 mile stretch of river for years. We were told it had distinctive markings on its head which was over two feet wide, and that the body was longer than a dugout canoe.
No one had been able to outsmart this cunning creature. Over the years many government hunters had tried to get within shooting range, but to no avail. It was almost as if it sensed that it was being hunted, and would relocate to another part of the river until things calmed down. After living over a hundred years, this croc had become very wise!
These cunning, dinosaur-like creatures are the descendants of reptiles that have been in the rivers and swamps of Africa for millions of years. They have pulled countless sheep, goats, cattle, wild game and even young elephants into the waters. When a big croc attacks, it’s like a lightning bolt striking. One second its unknowing victim is peaceful and relaxed. The next, the croc snatches its victim in a flash, pulling the unsuspecting person or beast underwater to be drowned and torn apart by its massive jaws lined with gruesome teeth. Often the croc will carefully stash its victim under a river bank or log, letting it rot for several days before ripping it apart.

At first we spent a lot of time glassing from the dense reeds in the general area where the village woman was attacked, but we never saw any sign of a large croc. Day after day we hiked and glassed along the river banks and found nothing.

We had gone upstream several times. We saw a few small and medium-sized crocs, but not the one with the distinctive markings. Kayleigh was the hunter and I would be there to back her up if necessary. We began to wonder if this illusive croc would also elude us. Fourteen-foot high reeds grew all along the sandy banks of the river, and were full of hippo trails! It was scary crawling through these pathways, always wondering if we would encounter an enraged hippo at point-blank range! Often we heard hippos snorting in the river – now this was getting a little dodgy! We were more worried about coming face-to-face with a hippo than about crocs in the river. Once we heard rustling coming from the tall reeds and we all immediately pulled up our guns, only to see a small duiker dash by!
But still no croc. After several days we decided to search downstream along the many pools in this croc- and hippo-infested river, back to the area where the woman was attacked. We hid in the reeds all day, hoping for a sighting of the killer. It became very hot, and sweat dripped in our eyes. Malaria-carrying mosquitos buzzed us continually. Cobras and mambas were an ever-present threat in the thick reed beds. Our hunting days were winding down, when Rob said that we should try much further downstream, and again check out each large pool.
So early the next day, after breakfast and strong black coffee, we started out. We walked far downstream, and once crossed the river in a shallow area several feet deep. Once on the other side we slowly approached a large pool, through the reeds so as not to disturb any croc that might be in the area. As we crawled through the hippo tunnels and reached the edge of the river, Rob motioned for everyone to keep down.
There on an island in the middle of the large pool lay a massive croc, sunning itself. We just waited. As we glassed it, Rob said, “That’s the one, no doubt. It’s got the distinctive markings of the killer.” It looked as though someone had shot at its head and the bullet had only grazed its skull.
Rob told me to stay where I was, and he and Kayleigh would try to maneuver into a spot with a clear shooting lane. Now everyone was getting tense! The village scout stayed back with me, and we waited. At the sound of the .375 H&H going off, several other medium-sized crocs on the bank immediately launched into the river. But the monster croc was anchored, only slightly moving. There was no need for a follow-up shot. Kayleigh had done it!
After days and days of hunting this beast, it was finished! Bush news carried the message back to the village. The villagers were ecstatic about the good news – the croc that had been terrorizing the area for years was now gone. All night a celebration raged, with villagers singing and chanting!
Our Cape buffalo hunt had ended with the removal of a problem croc. It had been very exciting, and we felt good knowing we had made a difference to the lives of these villagers.[/vc_column_text][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”16514,16510,16511″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Off the Beaten Track in Zimbabwe

Jul 31, 2018 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text] Off the Beaten Track in Zimbabwe – a father-son quest for plains game and Cape buffalo

By Alexander Richter

As dusk was falling on the dry savannah, I steadied my breathing and prepared myself for the shot. From the tall grass, his head lifted to reveal pitted bosses, flaring nostrils and glaring eyes. Darkness was encroaching as the last day of the safari came to an end. At sixty yards I squeezed the trigger of my Montana .375, the crosshairs steady between the animal’s eyes. A thunderous “crack” rang out and I lost sight of the large Cape buffalo bull…

Two weeks before that night, my father and I had driven six hours from Harare’s airport through Zimbabwean bushveld to the Save Conservancy. The landscape was totally new to me, and in the rural setting I was fascinated to see the round mud huts with their neatly thatched roofs.

Late in the night we arrived at the boundary of the area we would be hunting for the next fourteen days. Our PH, Lloyd Yeatman greeted us and helped transfer our luggage to the hunting vehicle. We drove on muddy roads through sugar cane fields, following the smell of burning wood, and finally arrived at Mkwasine Camp, lit with hanging lanterns. I chatted a while with Lloyd and his wife Sabine that first night, and later, possibly with the help of a local ale, I was soon in bed, falling asleep to the sounds of the night.

A gentle tap on my tent flap woke me. It was already the next morning, still dark. Breakfast was being prepared. We sipped coffee next to the warm coals from the previous night’s fire, and after breakfast we conducted a preliminary assessment of the area we were to be hunting, and sighted in our rifles. My father, a custom gunsmith and avid reloader, brought along a .416 Taylor, while I brought my new Montana .375.

It was not long before we were focusing on the game in the area. We came across four kudu bulls and I was quick to get on the shooting sticks. There were two very mature bulls. My scope must have been on six power from sighting in at the range, because when I settled my gun on the shooting sticks, my field of view was limited and shaky. I blew the shot on the large kudu, my bullet glancing over the rise in his shoulders and into the dirt. This sent the four animals running into the thick brush never to be seen again for the remainder of the trip. I contemplated many reasons and excuses for my shot being wrong, and sulked back to the vehicle. I always seemed to shoot poorly in Africa.

The following morning, I regained confidence when we encountered a group of eland in the open grass and I was able to drop the large bull with a single shoulder shot from my .375. A few days later, I placed a solid neck shot on a big waterbuck that was facing us straight on in grass up to its chin. The shot dropped the magnificent waterbuck, and I felt even more confident in my gun and shooting ability.

Lloyd thought it was now time to hunt my dad’s buffalo. Masanyani, an exceptionally skilled tracker, guided our crew through thick brush and reed swamps that afternoon. The reeds were so high that I could have been twice as tall and still not be able to see over them. At times I could hear buffalo crashing away, but it was too thick to see them. Crossing a sand road, we came across elephant tracks as well the prints of a black rhino. I was amazed that there was a rhino in our area – two armed government rangers were tracking it to protect it from poachers. The men had a small outpost just down the river from us, close enough that we could see their campfire at night.

Entering a new area, we crossed the crystal-clear waters of a creek and scaled a steep hill. After patiently following fresh tracks without sight of buffalo, we made it to a vantage point overlooking another reed swamp. Frequent traffic had matted down a path just wide enough to make an ideal shooting lane. In the event buffalo were to cross it while migrating across the swamp, we would be prepared for a steady shot. We waited there as the sun set and the bush quietened. I heard a buffalo’s nasal exhalation, and then the sound of more grumbling bovines. Our strategy was paying dividends. One, two, three buffalo crossed the path, grazing their way across swampy meadow. A bigger buffalo trailed them and crossed the path with a little more speed and caution. My dad was in shooting position, waiting for a respectable bull to present itself for just a few seconds. All the buffalo crossed the path, and we realized there was neither a big bull in the group, nor an opportunity for a shot. The sun went down, and we retreated to camp for supper and fireside conversation.

Before the sun was up the next morning, we parked and walked into an area where the tracks of two mature buffalo led from the dirt road. We stalked around a bend in an overgrown path, and suddenly Masanyani signaled. He got low to the ground and pointed to a lone bull grazing in the dew-covered grasses. My dad got on the shooting sticks and, as the buffalo turned broadside, his shot rang out and the buffalo trampled the thick brush towards the edge of the sugar cane field. The shot was a definite miss – Masanyani saw the shot travel in line with the shoulder but over the buffalo’s back. We tracked the buffalo for a short while before deciding to let the area settle till the next morning. Though we did not see the buffalo the next day, I was able to crack a shot off to drop a beautiful bushbuck that exposed only its white neck patch to my crosshairs through the dense foliage.

In our extensive quest for mature buffalo the next few days, we came across friendly locals that spoke only the Shangaan tongue, lion tracks, a black mamba outside a den, restless and vocal baboons and a skittish bush pig – always something new. You could bet my adrenaline was pumping. After a few close encounters with big buffalo, my dad realized how hard buffalo hunting could be. Every time, we either came across large groups of buffalo that shielded the large Dagga Boys from sight, or we encountered big bulls that were always one step ahead of us in thick brush.

Eventually, on the last morning, we successfully one-upped a herd of buffalo with some mature bulls. My dad, Masanyani and Lloyd got into position within twenty yards of them. We were in an opening covered with vines overlooking the riverbed where the buffalo were walking. Near the back of the herd, an old bull with war-torn bosses made his way towards us. A quick field judge determined this was a bull worth taking. A few paces behind my dad, I had a movie director’s perspective as I watched him ready himself on the gun. The large bull was just a few steps in front of him. The heart shot rang out and echoed between the river banks, and the following stampede raised a dust cloud as the rest thundered off. The lead-stricken bull struggled to keep the herd’s pace. Another vital shot dropped it in the sand of the dry river. The pursuit of my dad’s dream Cape buffalo was over.

Many locals came to help pull the buffalo to a spot accessible to the vehicle. They all took their own photos with the buffalo, and provided lots of man-power for winching up the dead beast. Arriving at camp, my father was lifted onto the shoulders of the hunting crew and they danced with him, singing out a traditional song to honor the buffalo. I am lucky enough to have a picture of this scene to embarrass him in front of his friends in case he ever does so to me. (Just kidding, Dad!)

By now, it was within two hours of darkness. We wanted to take a final trip around the property before the sunset put an end to our Zimbabwean safari. A weight had been lifted from our shoulders after my dad got his buffalo, and our hunting crew began to relax. Our leisurely humor continued, then just as the sun began to set, Samuel let out a sharp whistle that sent Lloyd skidding the vehicle to a halt. Four big buffalo, standing in the open grass not more than a hundred and fifty yards away, stared at us. We glassed them and agreed the one showing huge horns was a very big beautiful bull. I had been convinced this whole trip that I was hunting a few plains-game species while my dad was hunting the buffalo, until the moment my dad told Lloyd he would like me to go after the big one. In twenty minutes the savannah would be pitch-black. I was so caught off-guard that I had no time to get nervous or anxious.

We crept a great distance up to a small tree but lost sight of the bulls. Suddenly, we saw just the top of the big bull’s head, sixty yards away, positioned to run straight towards us. I got on the shooting sticks with my scope on 1.5x and placed the crosshairs right between the eyes of the bull. I was shaking a little, but knew this was the shot I was going to have to take. I steadied my breathing and squeezed the trigger. Through the recoil, I was able to keep the tree that the buffalo stood next to in my scope’s field of view. Mysteriously, the buffalo was gone! I thought I had missed, but Masanyani and Lloyd convinced me that the bull had dropped. I wasted no time feeding another shell into the chamber of my .375, and lead the way up to where the bull had been standing. He was dead. We gave another shot for insurance, and then I could wait no longer to put my hands on the horns of my Cape buffalo.

My bull was everything I could ever desire in a perfect mature Cape buffalo. I initially felt sort of bad for stalking and taking a big bull on the last night of our trip, after my dad had pursued a quality bull for two weeks straight! But my dad was happy for me. We were in awe of what had just happened. Back at camp, everybody was surprised to know that the young man hunting plains game all this time, had shot a big buffalo between the eyes – one shot, twenty minutes before dark, on the last day.

I still dream of the days we had spent hunting in the Zimbabwean bush.[/vc_column_text][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”16504,16505,16506,16507,16508,16509″][/vc_column][/vc_row]