Issue April – June 2018
Great Man, Great PH, Great Friend
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]January 20, 2018
Great Man, Great PH, Great Friend
By Lowell C. Douglas
I lost a dear friend yesterday – a true gentleman by royal standards, for he took the Queen and many of her subjects on safari. He has been written about by the most famous wildlife authors – Robert Ruark in “Something of Value” – and Ernest Hemingway. He was the author of many periodicals and short stories about Africa and its glorious animal life, and was a conservationist to the core. He was the ultimate friend, and he was a true family man – and that was hard to accomplish when he was so often on safari.
Besides Ernest Hemingway and Robert Ruark, he guided some of the most famous people in the world – English royalty, Juan Carlos King of Spain, and so many more, yet he made me feel that we were the closest of friends. I had five three-week safaris with Harry in Botswana and Kenya, and that was when Kenya was the African movie capital of the world.
This gentleman of all gentlemen – a wildlife conservationist who will be forever honored as such – is a friend I’ll never forget. When I flew into Nairobi, Kenya, or into Johannesburg, South Africa, he was always there to meet my plane. We shared the same respect for all fauna and flora. We both wanted the old days to live forever, for our kids, and for every person that loved the wild. We faced almost certain death together in stopping charges from elephant, lion, and buffalo, but we closed each night with toasts of thanks to the good Lord and our good fortune.
Harry literally wrote the book on conservation and the saving of all wildlife species – and that was hard to do with the encroachment of civilization and tourists. Of course there is still the awful poaching of elephant and rhino for tusks and horns to be sold to China. Ninety per cent of all poachers work for corrupt governments; portions of wildlife parks are shut down by the governments because of alleged need for road repairs, so the government poachers can slaughter the government’s quotas for shipments of rhino horns and ivory to China. It is a mess. But there are more elephant alive and well in all of southern Africa today than when I first hunted them in 1973, thanks to the political presence of Harry. “You have to give some ivory to the government leaders to protect most of the herds.” SHAME.
Harry loved to tell the story of his early days in Kenya when Princess Elizabeth came on safari. The now Queen is an avid markswoman, and she is and was a hunter, as well as an outdoor enthusiast who loved to just sit and view the wildlife of Africa.
On an auspicious occasion she stayed at the newly opened “Treetops” in Kenya. There, all guests were treated to lodging in the finest raised bedrooms that overlooked a favorite waterhole. When guests were finally readied for bed, an elderly Kenyan ex-soldier would patrol the area with a double side-by-side .458 to prevent any potential trouble that ventured too close.
It was there at Treetops on 6 February, 1952 that the young Princess Elizabeth was told her father, King George Vl was dead.
Her bodyguard at the time, hunter Jim Corbett, wrote in the visitor’s log book:
“For the first time in the history of the world a young girl climbed into a tree, one day a Princess, and after having what she described as her ‘most thrilling experience’, she climbed down from the tree next day a Queen – God bless her.”
As far as I know, no client was ever killed or injured on one of Harry’s safaris, but many suffered mild heart flutters from being scared to death. I had two of those flutters. One was when we were on an elephant hunt where we had tracked an elephant for eleven hours through rather thick brush, but we never got a high-percentage shot. Finally, we were within twenty metres of him. But that 20 metres was uphill to him, and that meant that if the first shot didn’t bring him down, he would seek his escape downhill. After keeping very still for about 20 minutes, he suddenly whirled to face our direction – trunk raised for a better whiff of our scent. He couldn’t make up his mind to charge or not. Thank goodness elephant’s eyesight is very poor. Harry held his double rifle to his shoulder and clicked off the safety, and I did the same. At the sound of our double clicks, the elephant flared his ears and took a step towards us. Harry whispered, “Wait! But be ready! Aim slightly below the middle of his eyes if he comes – but wait until he comes halfway.” My mathematics came into play – He’s just over 20 metres away now – that’d be a shot at ten metres! I obeyed.
The elephant suddenly stretched his trunk toward us, his butt seemed to fall toward the ground, then his trunk folded under his chest, and he charged.
“Shoot!” shouted Harry. The huge animal seemed to stop on a dime, and Harry shot. Its front legs splayed, and he fell straight down on his chest. We slowly stepped forward, side-by-side with rifles on our shoulders. Harry pushed me back a step and poked the eye of the downed creature. No blink, and no movement. We had our elephant.
I was not with Harry when he had the most bizarre hunting experience ever. He had stashed his client-hunter in a safe spot with one of his trackers, and he took his favorite tracker to track a wounded lion that had made it to the edge of a small river. A lion doesn’t usually want to get wet. Its tracks were on an animal trail that was also a vehicle two-track, and were easy to follow. Then Harry decided to stop pushing the lion, and sent the tracker back to get the Land Rover, but told him to tell his client and the other tracker to stay safe. When the tracker returned with the vehicle (which had had its doors removed) they began to follow the wounded lion in the Rover down the closest side of the vehicle tracks to the river. As the road turned toward the river, the dense brush on both sides of the road lessened. After Harry glassed all of the low cover for the lion, the tracker took a second rifle, and suggested that he examine the open drinking area for blood spoor that would tell which way the lion had chosen for his next walk.
Harry was sitting at the steering wheel, the furthest seat from the river. After the tracker was nearly down to the water’s edge, Harry noticed a slight movement of the brush. He stood up in the seat – rifle ready – and searched for any more movement. When he saw nothing, he slid back into his seat, his rifle across his lap. He was looking down the dirt road for his tracker when he heard the loudest roar ever, and the lion leapt from the bush right onto the passenger seat of the Rover. Harry’s gun was still in his lap, with his left hand on the trigger. He had no time to shoulder the firearm, but he managed to fire both barrels from his lap. He admits to the luckiest two shots ever fired – both bullets hit the lion right in the face, and the lion lay dead in the passenger seat!
Harry said that he told the quickly arriving tracker that he had coerced the lion into the passenger seat so that the two of them would not have to load the 600 pound beast! And the tracker swears to the story!
In Botswana, Harry and I were on safari after one of Botswana’s famous big Cape buffalo. We would drive in the open-air vehicles down every dirt track that led to thicker brush, then we’d try to follow game trails when buffalo tracks seemed to warrant a closer look. Big buffalo seldom want to put up with all the grunting of a big herd, so they typically travel in small bachelor units. Harry’s tracker spotted a group of five buff bulls to our left.
“A beeg one!” he shouted! They were in a pretty big open area, so we drove slowly to a better viewing opportunity. After following them for about ten minutes, Harry put the binoculars back to his eyes.
“My God – that’s the biggest buffalo I have ever seen! Get out, and get the guns – I’m going to leave the motor running to cover our first movements.” We walked and crawled for about thirty minutes. The big boy was the closest of the five to us. Harry would glass and glass, each time resting his grip, and muttering, “That’s the biggest buff I’ve ever seen!”
Finally we got an unexpected break. They began to feed in our direction, and unbelievably closed the distance to our hiding place behind really good cover. The wind was perfect. Suddenly, they stopped feeding, and the big one raised his nose into the air.
“He’s got us! It’s too far for a shot,” Harry whispered. Then the herd began to feed again directly toward us. We waited. Again they suddenly lifted their noses into the air. They were about 150 metres away – too far for a certain killing shot. They turned and began a slow stroll away from us. But when the big herd came into view just beyond them, the group of five turned back toward us and actually made a short trot in our direction.
“Get ready!” Harry whispered. I had a perfect branch on a high piece of brush we were hiding behind. They kept coming toward us. At about 75 metres, they stopped to graze again, the big one closest to us.
“Line him up,” Harry whispered. I slowly brought the rifle to my shoulder, and Harry raised his as well.
“If he turns sideways, take him through the shoulder.” The buffalo turned for a perfect broadside, and I squeezed.
“A perfect shot!” Harry shouted. He was down and the rest fled. We waited for about five minutes, then reloaded and walked toward him with rifles ready. Harry’s tracker had found a long stick, and we covered him from about 10 metres as he slowly walked to behind the buff. The tracker poked him with the stick – but the buffalo was dead. It ranked Number One in both horn and boss width.
Harry called everyone on the radio to come and see the biggest buffalo ever taken. The tracker started a fire with green brush to make smoke, and soon the other trackers and skinners arrived, and the partying and picture-taking began. In photos of Harry’s clients’ trophies, Harry always has his client’s smiling head above his, giving all the glory to his client.
What a gentleman – I’ll miss him every day of my life.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Glock style’s Tweed Hunting Vest
Gear & Gadget Section
23.4 Summer 2018
Gaston J. Glock style’s Tweed Hunting Vest
New to Gaston J. Glock style LP’s line of hunting apparel for men and ladies is this Virgin Wool Tweed Hunting Vest. A dashing overall picture – with elegant contrast stitching and color-coordinated Amaretta trimmings on the shoulders and pocket flaps. There is also ample storage space: two large front flap pockets with side entrances and overlying button pockets give you plenty of room for your shells and other belongings. Two inner zipper pockets keep your valuables in place. No itch here – 100% Viscose lining keeps you comfortable, and a bionic finish keeps dirt out of the tweed. Available in sizes S to XXXL
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More Buffalo with a Bow
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Australia, North America, Greenland: 2002 – 2015
More Buffalo with a Bow …
By Dr Adrian de Villiers
We go on these adventures to hunt different species for the whole adventure. Only a fraction of the time is spent actually dispatching the animal, and we do love the animals we shoot, as strange as it sounds. By them having value, they in turn are protected, and only the older bulls are taken.
Many years later, in 1998, I saw an advert in Magnum magazine for buffalo hunting in Australia, for those awesome, huge, wide-horned water buffalo. Graham Williams of Australian Buffalo Hunters was not keen to take a bowhunter, and said I would have to practice at 70 yards as he was sure he could get me that close, but not much closer. I was again using a 105# bow, and it was shooting incredibly well, even out to 70 yards. I took my 14-year-old son Ryan, also a bowhunter, to the Outback north of Darwin, and changed to a 100# bow. What I loved about my new bow was the adjustable “Let off” – I could draw 100 lbs and only hold 10 lbs. This meant that I could draw the bow when I saw an animal coming, and hold as I let it get closer.
My first Australian buffalo hunt was a text book walk and stalk. We saw a lone bull lying under a blue gum tree in the heat of the day, deep in the shadows. He had chosen a good spot – a lone tree surrounded by a dried-out swamp, the ground burnt rock-hard and knobbly, and all hell to crawl on in the 40 degree sun! He had his back to the wind with zero cover anywhere within a 180 degree radius of his eyes.
“If you go right around and come in from his left side you may be able to crawl up behind the tree in his blind spot. I’ll wait here and watch you. Watch me with your binoculars – I’ll tell you when to go and when to stop,” Graham said. I made my way around through the blue gum forest until I was about 70 yards away on the bull’s blind side. As I started to crawl in poor cover, trying to line his left eye with the tree trunk, I realised that he had chosen his spot really well. The wind was blowing almost towards him from behind. Once behind the tree trunk he would definitely smell me – it was a catch-22 situation. I was about thirty yards from the tree, just getting up out of sight of the bull, when he burst out of the blocks like an Olympic sprinter. I just saw a dust cloud.
My bow was set on 30 yards, and not sure what was happening, I instinctively drew it. The buffalo made a wide arc, charging towards Graham, and then back around the tree towards me. He lumbered out, and at 30 yards he stopped, head down and tilted back, typical buffalo pose, nose up trying to get my scent. I noted the deep sweep of his nice long horns, and a six-inch gap where a good shot could enter the chest. I had a bright green nock on my arrow, and that’s all that showed after the shot.
“How lucky was that!” Graham said. My bull was top 10 SCI – I was chuffed to say the least.
“I’d love to come back with my older son Shane,” I told Graham. “I want to add the banteng to my list of wild oxen. Can you arrange it for me?”
In late August 2002, Shane and I were both there, shooting 100 # bows and 1000-gr arrows. We had an Aborigine hunter to take us for a banteng. As far as I know, the only huntable ones are on the Cobourg Peninsula in the Northern Territories of Australia, originally imported from Indonesia. Indonesian sailors dropped them off to breed so they could hunt them for fresh meat when they regularly passed by. They also left water buffalo there for the same purpose. A rickety game fence across the base of the peninsula is designed to stop them spreading into the Northern Territories.
In 2004 Shane and I arrived via bush plane at Murganella, a small dusty airstrip on the Cobourg Peninsula, to stay in an eco-tourist camp on the Arafura Sea run by Reuben Cooper, a famous ex-Australian rules rugby hero, and his wife Dawn, who gave us all exotic meals such as turtle skewers, cobia sushi, barramundi and kangaroo steaks.
Every early morning we would leave camp with Reuben’s bushwise son Sam, and go into the reserve where the Aborigines were allowed to hunt. A major drawback was that the Aborigines in the Northern Territories had banned the use of rifles and handguns, so we had no rifle back-up. I would have to be dead sure of all my shots.
After five days of walking with only two days left, late one afternoon we found a large herd near an old abandoned sawmill. There were banteng everywhere, bulls chasing each other past where we were hidden. The dominant bulls were black, the rest of the herd being more ochre-colored, similar to South African impala. I stalked up to a monster male that had not yet changed to black, and was on the verge of shooting it when a pitch-black dominant bull, shimmering in the noonday sun, challenged him. They stood face to face like two prizefighters. I was in a patch of long grass, dead still, my head covered in a leafy suit, my bow above the grass at full draw. I must have looked just like a dead tree. The bulls were only 30 yards away and both broadside. The non-dominant bull was a much better trophy, but the black one looked so much more majestic and just what I was after. I took the coal-black one.
I was ecstatic to have a banteng and such a pretty one too. In 2002 there were only two bow-killed banteng in the SCI book, and he was only half an inch above the minimum-sized entry for banteng. In retrospect I should have taken the much bigger non-dominant one, since my cape was miss-handled and arrived at the taxidermist mouldy with bad hairslip. I had to buy a new cape.
A yak hunt was next, in 2002. Originally from the Himalayas, Mongolia and China, there are 14 million in China and 600,000 in Mongolia, and have been imported into various countries. Wild yaks are not huntable in their countries of origin, so I looked for places where they could be hunted as free-roaming as possible, as in Texas and Colorado. The yak, like the musk ox, is a primitive species, and not nearly as alert as the Cape buffalo, bison, or banteng. If threatened, they tend to form a circle or “lager” with all their heads pointing outwards with the females and young in the middle, or they stampede off like a flowing woollen blanket over the hills as musk oxen do. But we were warned that they could charge if approached too closely, or were startled or wounded. We were told to stalk very carefully and stay close to the sagebrush which predominates in the windswept sides of the mountains. The cold winds that blew off the ice on the mountains suited them, as they do not do well in hot climates.
I eventually found my herd in a depression on the side of a dormant, snow-covered volcano. A freezing wind was blowing in December and the rivers were solidly frozen over. Shooting in gusty, ice-cold wind was not what I was used to back home in South Africa.
The desolate side of the volcano was totally bare of any wildlife, the undulations in the terrain subtly masked by the flat, grey-brown sagebrush. Once I got higher up the mountain I peeked over the edges of every depression, making sure not to skyline myself, and found the herd within my bow range. My camouflage and leafy suit worked perfectly. I glassed the yaks. The larger bulls were all beautiful animals and all looked like trophies. I needed to choose the right one, without having another behind him – my 104# bow and 1000-gr arrow could easily shoot straight through both.
As a big bull stepped clear I drew, anchored, and waited till my 56 yard pin (single moveable pin set beforehand) was steady, as I was below the lip of the depression. I made a slight allowance for the downhill angle, aiming a little lower, and released the deadly missile. The shot was perfect. It looked a bit far back, but the animal was quartering away and I had aimed at the opposite front leg. The wind had drowned out the sound of the shot, and the rest of the herd was unaware that anything had happened. My animal jumped forwards and spun around. When the other bulls saw he was agitated and smelt the blood, they suddenly started attacking him. I have seen that with Cape buffalo, wildebeest and Australian water buffalo. I am not sure if it’s an instinctive reaction to get the wounded animal away from the herd as it could attract predators, or if it’s an opportunity to take over the spot of the dominant bull.
In no time he was down and dead. As I stood up and the herd saw me, they rushed away to disappear into another unseen depression. I marvelled at what a beautiful animal he was with an awesome set of horns. He was #1 SCI for many years before being overtaken.
In 2014 I decided I should try and get lucky No7, the musk ox. I had once almost frozen to death in deep snow on a mountain lion hunt in Idaho, and had seen videos of musk ox bowhunts in snow many degrees below zero, and was not interested in that at all. Frank Feldman of Greenland Bowhunters took autumn bowhunts in Greenland in much more temperate conditions. A year later I was on my way there for my Arctic adventure. As we flew over Greenland to land at the Narsarsuaq airport, I got a glimpse of the Arctic ice shelf. Greenland is the largest island in the world. A five-hour boat ride to the little island we stayed on was a joy, with blue, house-sized icebergs floating past in the fjord. Our route was blocked by a jumble of icebergs, but the boat captain skilfully slipped through.
At 61.01.462N and 47.52.408 E, we changed from the large launch to Frank’s smaller PT boat. It was drizzling and cold and misty, but not much further to the camp on a small island, and after four days’ travelling from South Africa, I was glad to get to my new “home,” a 5m² log house. It was Sunday 6 September 2015.
I spent the day assembling my bow, setting my sights and practicing on the small broadhead butt supplied by Frank. Monday morning I was up early, having not slept at all from excitement. In the middle of the night I had walked outside and seen the Northern Lights Aurora Borealis, caused by the magnetosphere of the earth being affected by the solar winds. The spectacle was awesome, and further proof of how far away from home and my comfort zone I was.
We left early in two boats and cruised the fjords, and soon found a herd lying up on a plateau overlooking the beach. Frank glassed them – there was a good old bull. Dropping anchor, we silently rode to the shore on the smaller outboard. The team waited while Frank and I approached on foot. As the herd was facing our way, we had to make a wide detour into the side of the mountain to get around them and into the wind. On our way through the large rocks we literally bumped into two large bulls that we had not seen from below. We carefully maneuvered around them once we determined that the herd bull was better. The herd was scattered about on the lower of four contours, near the beach. The ground was covered with soft, spongy moss and large boulders. We had to belly crawl from rock to rock, and eventually I was soaking wet.
There were 15 females with young, a herd bull, and about four mature bulls that were trying their luck with the big one. He would graze, chase off a younger bull, and then lie down for ten to 15 minutes, only to get up and chase off another one. He would walk over, sniff at one of his cows and lie down again. Each time we slithered into position, he seemed to time it perfectly and get up and walk away from where we were. On one occasion we were sliding on a slippery mossy slope when a bull suddenly appeared twenty yards in front of us. We were in good camo, me in a padded leafy suit and Frank in Kuiu camo. The bull saw us, did not know what we were, and just backed away.
Eventually we were well hidden, above the dominant bull we wanted. Lying almost flat, I could just see the top of his back. Once I rose up, almost all of the herd would see me, except for the bull. How they reacted and how quickly I shot would perhaps be the difference between success and failure.
“Nock an arrow, set your sight on 30 metres, stand up very, very slowly, and shoot him in the middle of his chest and directly in line with his hump,” Frank said. I had six “Dr Death Broadheads” my own make and design, and nine Spitfire mechanicals for caribou, having previously lost two Dr Deaths practicing on the small broadhead butt in the high winds near the camp, and only had four arrows with fixed blade heads, the only ones legal for musk ox in Greenland. The Dr Death broadheads weighed 185 gr and the Spitfires 100gr. My sights were set for the Spitfires at 30 metres and they shot perfectly with both points. The longer the shot the more the arrow would drop from where it was sighted in.
I drew my #75 bow and slowly stood up, aimed perfectly behind the shoulder and shot. I watched as the arrow appeared to drop out of sight, then heard a horrible “crack” – the sound of solid bone being hit. I had hit the humerus just above the elbow.
“You hit the brisket, much too low,” Frank said. “Try to get another shot in quickly.” Surprisingly, the animal hardly reacted to the shot. He spun around looking behind him, perhaps thinking one of the younger bulls had hurt him. My bow was so quiet with the 800 gr arrows that he never knew he had been shot. I drew, and waited for him to turn. “He’s still at thirty,” Frank said. I thought I had shot perfectly. But it was low. How could I shoot so badly at so close a range? I was shooting steeply downhill – I should be shooting high. As the bull walked further and further away, Frank said, “We cannot leave a wounded bull out here. If he starts to run for the hills, I am going to have to shoot him with my rifle, or you can!” I was horrified. All this way to shoot it with a gun.
“Frank, I’ve still got two arrows left. He’s close enough for a shot!” He was milling around with the herd at 70 yards. They were only slightly agitated, smelling the blood on his leg. He was perfectly broadside with a female just in front of him, another covering his abdomen, with less than a metre clear over his shoulder. I had practiced a lot with my Bowtech destroyer up to 90 yards with 100-gr points – my only problem would be estimating where to set my sights with the heavier heads. I set them on 75 m – the range finder told me it was 61 m or about 67 yards. I had to pull off a good shot, or I could lose my trophy to a rifle shot. Luckily, the arctic winds had not yet started for the day and it was dead calm.
I was so angry at myself that my buck fever was gone. I was calm and focused. I was now a sniper, and everything depended on this shot – the arrow drop was my only concern. My release felt perfect, I heard a soft “thud,” and I saw him shiver.
“I got him. I got him, he’s mine now.”
“I think you hit him in the foot.”
“No way, the shot was good.” Although I had bright pink fletches, in the dark shadow of the mountain neither of us could see the arrow clearly. The herd was on a plateau just above the beach. I had previously glassed the plateau from the boat and seen a footpath going down along the rocks, so I knew where he was going when he went over the edge. I had one arrow left. Frank was still sure I had missed the long shot. Nocking my last arrow, I sprinted up, hoping the bull was still close by the edge. When I looked over, I saw he was at 65 m, quartering steeply away and walking slowly. I aimed a metre in front of him and released, just in front of his left hip, angling towards the right shoulder, the pink fletches bright in the sudden sunlight.
I grabbed Frank and hugged him hard. “I got him. I got him, that’s a heart shot.”
When we caped him out we found that my long shot was perfect too, just behind the shoulder – he was already dying as he walked off the plateau. I never let an animal suffer unnecessarily so I would have shot that last shot anyway.
My bull was so old and his tips so worn down that Frank said he doubted that it would survive another cold winter. The artic conditions, the massive blue icebergs passing in the fiord, the turquoise water, and the huge cod we caught will be a memory I will cherish forever.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14834,14835,14836″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
UNDERNEATH THE MAGIC
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]By Terry Wieland
At a recent gathering, I was button-holed by a lady wanting some ballistic advice. Seems she and her husband were having pig problems on their ranch in Texas, and his .223 was not putting them down the way he’d like. What should he get instead?
Before I could utter a word, the lady then added that he had shoulder damage, so any kind of hard-kicking rifle was out. And then, as I began to say something, she said, “What about this new Creedmoor we’ve heard so much about? You can shoot out to a thousand yards, with no kick at all.”
The 6.5 Creedmoor is undoubtedly a fine cartridge, but the laws of physics have not been repealed to accommodate it. And while it has been around only 11 years, it is really not even that new; it is a cartridge that puts to use all the lessons learned since the first 6.5 appeared in the 1890s. It does absolutely nothing that the 6.5×55 Swedish (born in 1894) would not do — and perhaps do a little better — if it had the same advantages in terms of throating, rifling twist, super-efficient bullets, modern powders, and a sprinkling of internet pixie dust.
To be blunt, the 6.5 Creedmoor has nothing magical about it. Yet, magic is exactly what is being attributed to it.
In the past, the same thing has been claimed for other cartridges. Some that spring to mind are the .303 Savage, .22 High Power, .280 Ross, .250-3000, and the .244 Holland & Holland. The all-time champ in the blow-hard department is probably the .280 Halger, although some wildcatters have rivaled P.T. Barnum in their claims.
To give an example, one guy altered the shoulder angle on what was essentially a .300 Weatherby, and claimed an extra 200 feet per second, enhanced accuracy, and 10,000 psi lower pressures. All from changing the shoulder angle? I think not, thank you.
Also in the past, such claimants hoped to get the attention of someone like Jack O’Connor (Outdoor Life) or Warren Page (Field & Stream) to sing their praises in print. Today, they post the hogwash on websites or phoney-up YouTube videos. If nothing else, the Internet has fostered the great age of the huckster, and today wildcat cartridges sprout, flower, and disappear as quickly as tulips in spring.
You will notice that, with few exceptions, the over-touted cartridges rarely make the list of true all-time greats. Of those mentioned above, only the .280 Ross and the .250-3000 deserve to be on the list, which includes the .30-06, .270 Winchester, .416 Rigby, and — maybe the finest cartridge of all time, for Africa at least — the .375 H&H.
When you start analyzing the claims, you find that most are based on some naïve belief in the supernatural effects of high velocity. This is almost always combined with light bullets and explosive performance, simply because you can’t get the highest velocities without using light bullets.
Go back and look at the true greats, like the .416 Rigby and .375 H&H, however, and you see that their genuine and enduring reputations were made partly on the basis of bullet weight, and partly on proper bullet construction. The .375 H&H has based its performance on a 300-grain bullet of various configurations, while the .416 Rigby was loaded for many years with a steel-clad 410-grain bullet that delivered the ultimate in penetration.
Another example: The 7×57, as used by elephant hunter W.D.M. Bell, was loaded with a 175-grain bullet that penetrated, and just kept on penetrating. Same with the 6.5×54 Mannlicher-Schönauer, which established its reputation on four continents with 154- to 160-grain bullets. They weren’t particularly fast, and it had a looping trajectory that demanded the hunter get closer than 300 yards, but put that bullet in the right place and you had your animal.
The 6.5×55 Swedish, a cartridge that I have hunted with, reloaded for, and admired since 1988, established a twin reputation over the course of a century as both a premier match cartridge, and a big-game cartridge. The finest 300-metre target rifles, made in Europe, were always available in 6.5×55, while Scandinavian moose (European elk) hunters swore by it. In both cases, these reputations were won, not with light bullets at high velocity, but by heavy-for-caliber bullets ranging from 140 to 160 grains.
At the annual Sportsman’s Show in Toronto in the late ’80s, I met a lady who held the record for the largest moose ever taken in Ontario. Her rifle? A cut-down army surplus Swedish Mauser, using Dominion 160-grain round-nosed bullets. One shot was all it took, she told me. She liked the 6.5×55 because it wasn’t loud, didn’t pound her, and it did the job. Her moose-hunting husband used a .30-06. She thought he was over-gunned.
Interestingly enough, Jack O’Connor’s wife, Eleanor, who was a top-notch shot and big-game hunter in her own right, almost always used a 7×57, and she said the same thing about the .30-06. When she shot an elephant in Zambia, she decided the 7×57 was a little light (in spite of W.D.M. Bell) and used a .30-06. She put the bullet in the right place, and down he went.
All of this is not to argue that the average elephant hunter should use a 7×57 (like Bell) or a .30-06 (like Mrs. O’Connor), nor that a Cape buffalo hunter should go out with a 6.5×54 M-S (like Werner von Alvensleben), only that it’s impossible to over-state the value of putting a good bullet in the right place. There is nothing magic about it: It’s purely a matter of good marksmanship, skill, and judgement.
Unfortunately, all too many hunters — lacking the aforementioned skill and judgement — prefer to substitute magic, and look for it in the claims of cartridge designers and bullet makers.
In the early 1950s, Roy Weatherby wrote some stuff (and got it published) making the most outlandish claims for his cartridges. In one instance, he told of a long safari in Africa in which his .257 and .270 Weatherbys out-performed both a .375 H&H and a .470 Nitro Express. A hit on an animal anywhere, he claimed — in the paunch, in the ham, it didn’t matter — and the animal went down. Magic!
Well, I have used all of the above cartridges, and I admire them all, and I have hunted with all except the .470 NE, and guess what? When I put the bullet in the right place, they work; when I don’t (and I have done it), they don’t.
In the years that followed, Weatherby cartridges gained a bad reputation, and by extension the users of Weatherby rifles and cartridges came to be regarded by African professional hunters as either ballistic babes in the wood, or by wealthy guys who tried to substitute flashy rifles for old-fashioned skill. When I took my .257 Weatherby to Africa in 1990, I was greeted with a few raised eyebrows. I had my bad moments, but I also had my good ones. I used the .257 (loaded with the old original 115-grain Trophy Bonded Bear Claws) and my .416 Weatherby (loaded with 400-grain Bear Claws) and both performed extremely well. In both cases, it was as much a triumph for the bullets as it was for the rifles. Neither one depended on extreme velocity, only on good bullet construction and proper placement thereof.
I would have done just as well — or just as badly — had I been carrying a .270 Winchester and a .416 Rigby. One of my companions on that safari, which included both Tanzania and Botswana, was Finn Aagard, a former Kenya PH then living in Texas and writing for the NRA. His rifle was a custom Mauser with interchangeable barrels, one a 6.5×55 and the other a .416 Taylor. The Taylor, a wildcat little heard of now, was the .458 Winchester necked down. Finn liked the rifle because it was efficient for its size, and didn’t kick much or deafen him any more than he already was. Of course, he was a superb game shot. That helped.
In the end, I wasn’t able to help the lady with the pig problem very much. She knew just enough about rifles to object to every suggestion I made, but not enough to realize what the real difficulty was. That, of course, is that there’s no magic to any of this, and no rifle combines supernatural killing power with no noise or recoil. I asked what ammunition her husband was using, but she didn’t know.
I don’t hunt pigs with a .223 myself. The .223 is not my idea of a good big-game cartridge regardless of what bullet you use. However, I know several guys who do, and they generally get all the pigs they shoot at when they venture out. They pay extra for good game loads. They do not hunt with standard bargain-basement military ammunition, or light varmint bullets. Their results come with good expanding bullets, generally a little heavier and a little slower, put in the right place. From W.D.M. Bell to Eleanor O’Connor to my Ontario-moose-hunting acquaintance, it’s a formula that’s worked for more than a century, and the rules are not about to change now.
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Done and Dusted – Diamond in Sight
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]East Africa: 2014
Done and Dusted – Diamond in Sight
By Michael Ambrose
As the sun was sinking over Lake Victoria, the dogs began to barking and the drivers began yelling, the noise of breaking brush increased, and near the water’s edge suddenly appeared what I had not seen all week…
Since I started hunting Africa in 2007 I have enjoyed six safaris to Tanzania, and booked my seventh with Harpreet Brar of Rungwa Game Safaris during the 2014 Convention. The idea this time was to go to an area in western Tanzania and hunt the swamps and lowlands for East African species I had not taken. As Harpreet did not have an area with these, he made arrangements with Robin Hurt Safaris to hunt their Luganzo block. I flew direct from my ongoing contract job in Thailand as I was going to use Harpreet’s two Austrian-made Hambrusch custom rifles, in .416 Remington Magnum and .300 Winchester Magnum. Harpreet was also going to hunt a number of species he had not taken before.
After my 2 a.m. arrival I was taken to Harpreet’s home in Arusha and I got some much need shut-eye in the guest quarters. An early lunch, and we were off on a three-hour charter flight to far western Tanzania. As we landed on the air strip we could see herds of topi, and after unloading the plane and gear into the hunting trucks we loaded the magazines of our rifles. We were about 1½ hours from camp, and both had topi on license with plenty of daylight left, so the next two hours were used hunting, with both of us taking Gold Medal bulls.
We passed one of the large swamp areas on the way to camp and took time to familiarize ourselves with the best machan (tree stand) locations. Turning in early to recover from the long trip allowed me to be rested and refreshed when we rose at 3.30 to head to the machan. A beautiful dawn greeted us as the sun came into view over the expanse of swamp. We saw movement in an opening in the papyrus, but we needed more light to be able to check what it was. Thirty minutes later there it was – a mature bull, (what animal??? – sitatunga,???) and a single shot from the .300 made my hunt for one of the most elusive animals in Tanzania seem simple.
We spent the rest of the day getting familiar with the concession and spotted East African roan and defassa waterbuck, and hartebeest. All the animals seemed very spooky and stayed well out into the large expanse of flat plains. They were on the move at the first sight or sound of the vehicle. (Although this is a Wildlife Management Area, and not supposed to have permanent human inhabitants, there were many fishing camps established throughout the area, and people were plentiful as one of the legal fishing seasons was in full swing for those with permits. Unfortunately, there are many cattle and herders, and much evidence of farming and cultivation.) I was able to take a very nice defassa waterbuck late that afternoon with a long shot on a lone bull.
The next morning found us in another machan, with Harpreet manning the rifle this time. In the early light we spotted a couple of female sitatungas and a male. Then another bull appeared which delayed a decision on which was the trophy, until suddenly both of the bulls disappeared into separate sections of the papyrus swamp. For the next hour we thought we had missed our opportunity, when I noticed some movement about 150 yards out. This was also a bull, but in very thick and tall cover, and for much time could only see horns and horn tips. Finally, he stepped into the open long enough to be judged as mature and a good trophy, only to disappear again into the reeds! Luckily he reappeared in a few minutes and Harpreet made a great shot to collect his sitatunga.
It was clear that everyone was not a fisherman, even though they all claimed to be when questioned. Most were here illegally, and there was apparent poaching causing the animals to be very wary, and over the next couple of days we found a number of snares. The camp manager said they were trying to get some action from the local ranger station, but with the rains it would be next season before anyone could get in there.
Hunting proved to be challenging in this environment. We spent a lot of time on the ground in order to get in range of the wary animals, with long shots of 250 to 350 yards, but we were able to take our roan, and Harpreet also managed a great old common sable bull, a Lichtenstein’s hartebeest and waterbuck. East African greater kudu was also on my wish list, but in five days we had only caught a glimpse of a couple females and a few young running in thick cover. As Harpreet was checking with his camp manager the availability of a kudu tag in his Lolkisale concession in Masailand, we spotted our first buffalo. The small herd entered the plain and then turned to look at us from a 40-yard distance. A mature, closed-boss bull of about 36” width stared a bit too long, and will now be getting a Texas Driver’s License.
Luckily, there was a kudu tag available in Lolkisale, so arrangements were made to have the charter pick us up the next day. We would spend a day in Arusha, and then we were off on the four-hour drive to camp.
What a huge contrast in the two areas. Lolkisale and Lobo, both open areas, contain a huge number of Masai herdsman with many hundreds of cattle, but huge quantities of impala, Coke’s hartebeest, Grant’s and Thomson’s gazelle, fringe-eared oryx, buffalo, elephant, lesser kudu and other species, and all very relaxed. Harpreet has anti-poaching teams on all his concessions year round, and the difference in animal behavior is striking.
East African kudu are not called the grey ghost for no reason, but on Day 2, I was able to connect with a very nice 50” bull – everything I could accomplish had been achieved. The only animal in Tanzania I have not taken is the Roosevelt sable which exists in the Selous Game Reserve, but as the rainy season was in full swing, going there was not an option.
At the HSC convention in January I talked to my good friend James Jeffrey of Lost Horizon Outfitters and Bruce Martin of Lake Albert Safaris in Uganda. We decided there were seven East African species I had not taken, and Bruce put together a plan to try to change that. Beginning March found me arriving in Entebbe early in the morning and traveling to Kampala late that day to spend some time with Bruce over a meal and some wine before heading up north the following day to Karinga and Karamoja.
A half hour out of camp on Day 1 we ran into one of the oldest buffalo I have ever taken and the only one of the Nile species I had ever seen. He was extremely old – worn horns, thinning hair – and was absolutely what I had come to Uganda in search of. The next day found us sorting through many different herds of Jackson’s hartebeest until we finally located a lone bull, and he turned out to be the new pending #4 SCI of this species. We had to do some traveling the next day near the Kenya and Sudan borders to hunt the mountain reed buck, and, due to the influx of nomadic tribes from both countries following grass and water with their cattle, we were required to have armed guards furnished from the local army outpost.
When we finally got to the mountain we found it had recently been burned. Although we spent a few hours glassing the barren landscape and spotted a couple of reed buck, there was no way to make a clandestine approach, so we just headed back to camp. A three-hour drive the next day to Karamoja, the stomping grounds of the famous elephant hunter ‘Karamoja’ Bell, found us hunting the antithesis of the elephant, the tiny Gunther’s dik-dik. They were plentiful, but trying to get one to stand still long enough took some time, but eventually we succeeded in taking a top 20 of the species.
Back to Karinga for the night and charter flight to Entebbe next day; a drive to Kampala and another lovely evening, this time with Bruce’s wife and daughters, and we were ready for the next adventure the following morning, a four-hour drive to Kaboya where Bruce has a safari lodge which also services photographic adventures in the National Park part of the season. Here was a lovely 5-star resort on Lake Albert, simply teaming with game, including our next two targeted species, Uganda kob and Nile bushbuck. We stayed for two nights and enjoyed the resort’s luxuries while taking our time in finding mature trophies. They were plentiful, and we looked over literally hundreds of kob and more than 30 bushbuck before collecting them and heading back to Kampala.
A Thai massage, a good meal and a night’s rest, and we were off to Sesse Islands for the last of the species, the Sesse Islands sitatunga. It was during our time on the ferry that I began to realize that in the eight years of hunting Africa, I was only seven species shy of achieving Diamond Africa Status, and three of them could be taken in the Congo where I was heading in July. Even if I was not successful here on the second sitatunga species required, I had the western sitatunga on license in the Congo. On my last day I became convinced that was how I would have to accomplish my new goal as we finished another unsuccessful drive at about 4.15 p.m. The Sesse Islands sitatunga is as much a forest, as a swamp animal; driven hunts in the forest near the swamps is the preferred method employed here.
I was resigned to not finding one when Bruce insisted on one more drive, although we were going to have to hurry to get it in before dark. As the sun was sinking over Lake Victoria, the dogs began to barking and the drivers began yelling, and the noise of breaking brush increased, and near the water’s edge suddenly appeared what I had not seen all week. As he broke from cover and slowed to look in my direction his huge horns silhouetted against the calm waters of the lake, I found his shoulder in the open sights of my Blaser, and this portion of my quest was fulfilled.
I am off to the Congo in July, with seven species on license. Two of these will leave me only four species shy of my new quest – Africa Diamond![/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14322,14323,14324,14325,14326,14327,14328″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
The Winner Takes All!
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]The Winner Takes All!
By Tim Norris MD
I’ve found the cure for jet-lag!
I started hunting Africa in 1990 and have been fortunate to make twelve trips to Africa since then. One of the issues I’ve had with travel from Idaho to Africa has always been jet-lag. It usually takes two to three days to get my biorhythms in sync with the local time. I can’t justify the cost of business/first class – that’s the price of multiple trophy animals – and I find it impossible to get much sleep crammed into economy. This trip would be different.
I’m a life member of SCI and usually attend their convention, whether I’ve got a hunt booked or not. It’s the closest thing I’ve found to a kid’s Toys R Us for the hunter. As a long-time subscriber to the AHG, I usually stop by their booth to chat and renew my subscription. In 2016 the renewal incentive was a chance to draw an all-expenses paid 7-day sable antelope hunt with Jan Taljaard’s Impisi Safaris — a snowball’s chance in hell, right? Needless to say, I was surprised when I received a call from the AHG’s Nichole Kelly informing me that I had been drawn for the hunt. Coincidently, I had visited Impisi Safaris’ booth at the convention, and was familiar with their operation. Now, I was really pumped.
Good health and time are two of life’s most precious commodities. The unexpected death of two friends within several weeks of my lucky win really served as a wake-up call. I needed to spend more than seven days in Africa on this trip. The Caprivi Strip (now Zambezi Region) elephant/buffalo hunt I had considered for 2019 needed to become a reality, and this was the opportunity to make it happen – and make it happen now. I coordinated with Jan of Impisi Safaris and Dawid Muller of Daggaboy Hunting Safaris in Namibia to make a plan. Jan volunteered to organize an overland trip from his concession in the Limpopo Province to Daggaboy Hunting Safaris’ camp in the eastern Caprivi Strip – an opportunity to experience five days of sightseeing in Botswana, a country I had never visited. It turned out to be an interesting trip and an opportunity to visit Vic Falls again.
We arrived in Joburg at 6 p.m. after the usual sleepless 16-hour flight from Atlanta. I had never utilized a VIP/meet & greet service before, but did so for this trip. It was worth every penny and I highly recommend it. We were met at the gate, breezed through immigration/customs, acquired the RSA gun permit, and linked up with our outfitter in 30 minutes. I think this was a new world record for transiting the JNB airport! The drive to Impisi Safaris’ camp took about 4½ hours and we arrived in camp around midnight, and after a quick orientation, we were shown to our tent. Technically this structure could be called a tent, but in fact was the most luxurious accommodation I’ve had in Africa.
We woke up 13 hours later at 2 p.m! This was the cure for jet-lag, and we started our first hunting day -what was left of it – completely refreshed. I think the last time I’d slept that long I was an exhausted infantry grunt in the US Army! The camp chef organized a delicious afternoon brunch, and we linked up with Jan to discuss our plans for the rest of the day. I requested an opportunity to verify my rifle’s zero and a tour of the hunting concession. The rifle for this trip was a custom pre-64 model 70 Winchester in .300 H&H Mag, the same rifle I had taken on my first safari in 1990 to Zimbabwe.
When we arrived at the rifle range it confirmed my initial impressions of the Impisi Safaris operation. This was not some slapdash, shoot-off-the-hood-of-the-truck setup, but a serious concrete benchrest range! The zero of my rifle was quickly confirmed, and off we went on the tour of the hunting concession.
Within five minutes of leaving the rifle range I saw the first sable—three nice bulls with one exceeding 40 inches. The excitement of hunting Africa came rushing back. Quite frankly, it was hard to restrain myself from having a go at the largest bull. We continued driving the concession, and it became obvious how game-rich this operation was – kudu, eland, zebra, wildebeest, warthog, waterbuck, gemsbok, giraffe, impala and more were seen on the way back to camp.
The Impisi Safaris’ camp is built on the dominant terrain feature in the area, a huge kopje that offers a spectacular view of the Limpopo Province and southern Botswana. The camp consists of a large dining tent with impressive decking that incorporates a baobab tree. Three guest tents are engineered to blend in with the kopje; staff quarters and the cooking facilities are a discreet distance away and are unobtrusive. Jan and Anton Taljaard did a remarkable job with the location and construction of their camp, and have created one of the most unique and comfortable safari camps I have ever seen.
I met my PH, Logan van Zyl, and apprentice PH Corné Olivier at dinner, and we preceded to formulate a plan for the rest of the hunt. Charles Mutswapo, a chef from Zimbabwe, served an outstanding meal, setting and maintaining a high standard for the rest of our meals at camp.
I wanted to find a sable bull with character, not necessarily the longest or highest scoring, but one that really caught my eye. Needless to say, this created a challenge for Logan and Corné. We spent several days looking for sable. Hunting consisted of “diesel stalking” with multiple dismounts and stalks on animals; “still” hunting through likely cover, and spot and stalks from elevated terrain. I passed on multiple shooting opportunities on sable bulls in the 40”-42” range, much to the chagrin of Logan and Corné! On the third day at last light I saw an old sable bull with exceptional mass and well-rubbed horns. He wouldn’t go more than 38” in length, but he had the character I was looking for. He was a very old animal and probably in his last year—this was perfect! Unfortunately there wasn’t enough shooting light remaining and we would have to continue the hunt the next day.
Three days later we found my “character” sable bull. He had managed to elude us for days of intensive hunting. We found him mid-morning and attempted a stalk. He was 600 yards away, had not seen us and the wind was perfect for our approach. The vegetation on the Impisi concession can be quite thick, and we lost sight of the bull at 150 yards; quite simply, he just disappeared. We intersected his tracks and followed him for about half a mile, and ended up close to where we had first caught sight of him. He had made a 180 degree fishhook maneuver and was now downwind of us! We followed him for a short distance, heard a snort from behind some thick brush, then the sound of hoofbeats as he bounded off. Oh well, time to head back to camp for lunch.
Over lunch we made a plan for the afternoon hunt. Logan van Zyl has hunted the Impisi concession for several years, and had a good idea of where we might find this cagey sable. After three hours of hunting we again located the bull. We caught him bedded down, and he appeared to be sleeping. Again the conditions seemed perfect for a stalk – wind directly in our face – and we commenced a 500 yard stalk. As we closed to 250 yards we started crawling on our hands and knees, and at 125 yards converted to a butt crawl to keep him in continuous view. At 90 yards I sat and prepared myself for a shot. Although the wind direction had been consistent during our approach, the bull somehow sensed something was amiss, and got to his feet. As he turned to leave I shot him in the shoulder with a 180 gr Nosler partition bullet, and he was down within 20 yards of the shot.
A successful hunt by definition includes a kill, but as I’ve gotten older my emotions toward the kill have become more conflicted. There is euphoria over the success of the hunt, mixed with a sadness at the death of a beautiful animal. Logan and I spent several minutes in silence paying our respects to this truly magnificent sable bull.
We had a wonderful time during our week with Impisi Safaris, and it exceeded my expectations in all respects. Dianette van Zyl, the camp manager, ran a superb staff, and 5-star evening meals were the camp routine. The atmosphere and camaraderie around the campfire truly captured the essence of the African safari experience.
Jan, I would be remiss in not thanking you again for organizing my tour of Botswana and the trip to the Caprivi Strip – Corné Olivier did an excellent job. I look forward to hunting with Impisi Safaris again.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14315,14314,14313,14312,14311″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Zambia: 1977
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Zambia: 1977
By Geoff Wainwright
The heavy rains signaled the end of another safari season, and I looked forward to seeing my parents on the Copperbelt in Zambia. I had been employed as a PH by Zambia Safaris.
In my home town of Kitwe-Nkana I lazed about for a day or two, got bored and caught up on the maintenance of my two Toyota Land Cruisers. The task completed, I soon longed to get back into the wild. I had joined the ranks of the Honorary Wild Life Rangers, a dedicated group of volunteers much older than I, under the stewardship of the late Byron Henderson. The association worked closely with the resident police force and government Wild Life Department based outside capital city Lusaka.
Henderson had received word from a village informant – the bridge I had constructed in the North Western province had been destroyed by poachers. . . Please could I go and rebuild it? Yes!
I recruited my anti-poaching unit. In our ranks was hunter and good friend, Honorary Ranger, Gordon O’Brian. His servant, and jack-of-all-trades, affectionately nick-named Skelm, had a penchant for booze and loose women. There were two uniformed policemen – I’ll just call them Sargent and Constable. We left Kitwe in the dead of night. I took the lead. The policemen were crammed next to me, their AK 47s tucked behind the seat. My precious Holland & Holland .375 was cradled on the dashboard. Long-time safari cook, McCloud was on the back, and truck was loaded down with camp equipment. We drove southwest on good, paved roads, then later through the mining town of Chingola, our headlights cutting into the night. Suddenly, with an almighty bump, our vehicle was airborne then hit dirt! My wheels bounced over and through countless potholes.
In the early light of dawn we had just crossed the bridge over the Lufwanyama River when a bushbuck sprang in front of us. I swerved violently to avoid it, lost control, and the vehicle slid sideways. Luck being my companion, it righted itself. Much relieved, I carried on driving. Gordon’s visibility through my dust was limited to about thirty yards. He knocked down and killed the little antelope, and skidded to a halt. Helped by Skelm, it was loaded onto his Land Rover.
From there on, being a wiser man, he followed me at a greater distance. We passed odd thatched huts where roosters crowed to announce the dawn, the town lights of Solwezie aglow on the horizon. I pulled to one side and stopped at a miserable collection of native huts guarded by spindly pawpaw trees and clusters of banana plants. Gordon pulled up behind us.
“We were almost killed by a bushbuck!” I yelled.
“I hit it,” said Gordon. “It’s lying in the back of my truck.”
Hollow-bellied dogs barked and chickens scratched, and a village headman arrived, elderly, silvered-haired, wearing a suit jacket and shorts. He was followed by a rabble of bare-footed men. He lectured them in Bemba (local language) to work hard. The majority of them were young with a few, grizzled, old-timers. They tossed their kit over the side of Gordon’s Land Rover and clambered eagerly into the back.
We drove on, and finally turned off the main road and parked under an ancient fig tree. Gordon and I searched in foot-high grass for tire ruts, found some, and followed them into the miombo forest where we found my old blaze marks on the trees.
My mind went back two years. My Toyota Land Cruiser had been loaded with a mobile camp, with McCloud seated next to me, a compass and map on his lap. We drove at a snail’s pace, following a group of men as they cleared the track and marked the trees. We had navigated raw country, visited remote villages and established our anti-poaching presence. Somebody yelled and woke me from my day-dreaming!
I focused on the job in hand. We clambered on board, eyes on the blaze marks, as we wove our way between the trees till we arrived on the edge of a vlei. There the tsetse flies welcomed us with their blood-sucking bites. Buffalo, elephant, lion, leopard, roan and lesser species roamed the country. From the top of a hill, we had a commanding view over a sea of greenery. I scanned to the horizon, where there was smudge of dust made by heavy earth-moving equipment at the open pit copper mine of Kalengwa, named after a legendary chief. Carried by the wind, one could hear the dull thud of dynamite exploding. The mine, surrounded by countless thatched huts, resembled a small town. It marked the beginning of the end of one of Zambia’s prime hunting and conservation areas. Resident villagers had created a high demand for bushmeat, and the poaching was rampant.
Our old tracks sloped gently downhill. Finally we arrived on the banks of the Musondwedsi River. Gordon walked behind me, with Sargent and Constable, carrying AK 47s. The fire-blackened remains of my bridge came into view. It had been deliberately burnt by poachers to stop us patrolling the opposite bank with our vehicles!
There was much work to do! Our ragtag men cleared the ground. Some helped erect a huge a tarpaulin strung high below two trees. The corners were tied to stakes hammered in the ground. Mac-loud skinned the bushbuck while others collected firewood. Dusk set in and bedding was laid out on a ground sheet. A breeze blew, the mosquito nets swayed like ghosts. The camp was filled with the aroma of meat roasted on coals. The night wore on and the murmur of voices died, the silence was broken only by the occasional cough.
Mac-loud woke me early the next morning with a cup of steaming coffee. Then, suddenly, two shots rang out downstream! Gordon and Skelm appeared out of the mist, shot guns over their shoulders and a brace of guineas between them.
“Damn it! You have announced our presence to all the bloody poachers!” I said.
With a wave of his hand towards all the workers, he replied, “Don’t worry! We have employed them all!” We smiled. Later, the forest rang to sound of axes and the shouts of men hard at work. By nightfall, the heavy work was complete. Skelm unbolted the driver’s seats from our vehicles and took them out, and Gordon and I sat in comfort round the camp fire, dined on tough guinea fowl, and then retired.
The next morning, after a sentinel baboon had barked, we went off with backpacks, leaving Mac-Loud in charge to complete the bridge. Skelm appointed himself as Gordon’s gun bearer, proudly carrying his new .375 Cogswell & Harrison, Constable and Sargent armed with their AKs.
We balanced precariously on a log bridging the chasm, crossing to the opposite bank. Wits about us and cautious of being ambushed by poachers, we kept to the high ground. There, we had a view over the river and the tree-lined banks on both sides. The miombo was silent, with only the occasional chirp of a bird. There was little sign of game. Much rain had fallen and there were puddles of water everywhere. We walked on a game trail and long grass brushed our faces. Sargent was suddenly stopped in mid-stride, a poachers’ wire snare pulled tight around his chest! He cursed loudly! We helped free him and dismantled it in disgust.
A short distance away, the grass was flattened. The earth had been mashed by the hooves of a snared buffalo – a lone marauder – a Dagga Boy. The terrified beast had dragged a heavy log for a long distance. Finally the log had become snagged between two tree stumps, the cable broke and the buffalo freed itself. The ground was spattered with fresh blood and tufts of coarse hair. We had a wounded buffalo on our hands! I was determined to shoot it and put it out of its misery – the Hunters’ Code.
His tracks led us down the steep bank to the water’s edge. There he must have slaked his thirst, and then sought sanctuary in a patch of dense reeds. They arched overhead and formed a maze of gloomy tunnels. Visibility was now down to six yards at best, and the breeze was not in our favor. Thoughts of being gored to death, or seriously injured did not bode well – and the odds were against us!
Sargent, Constable and I returned to the top of the bank. From this high vantage point we watched, my rifle ready for a long shot below. I covered Gordon and Skelm below us as they searched for evidence that the buffalo might have moved to higher ground, but the old warrior had remained hidden in the reeds.
Skelm shimmied up a tree overlooking the reeds to glass, but saw nothing, only the tassels-tops swaying in the breeze. We hurled pieces of termite mound into the patch of green. Sargent’s clod resulted in loud, gut-wrenching snort, and the buffalo crashed noisily away. Eerie silence followed, then the patter of rain on leaves.
We slipped our rifles into their bags, our raincoats buttoned up just in time. The heavens opened and the rain sheeted down. Between two trees in record time we erected a tarpaulin and took cover. The clouds darkened and lightning lit up the sky. It bucketed down all afternoon and well into the night. Needless to say, we were miserable. While we sat on our soggy backpacks, Gordon, with a twinkle in his eye, produced a flask of hot coffee. He filled the only mug and it did the rounds. The heavy rain continued to drum down on our tarp and we caught only snatches of sleep.
Thankfully, it ceased just before dawn. The eastern sky changed color. Constable made a fire, and we warmed ourselves, and ate bananas and bread as I formed a plan.
Sargent and Constable climbed a tree to recce. The steep bank was slippery as we made our way down to the reeds. The Musondwedsi had burst its banks, and the river was a raging torrent. The flood water reached over our boots. Gordon lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up. We watched attentively as it hung, then drifted back into his face – the breeze was in our favor. Rifles were loaded with soft and solid rounds. Skelm took the lead and we waded behind him. Our heavy boots made too much noise, so we took them off and slung them round our necks, and our feet sank into the mud.
Visibility in the narrow alleys was down to a few yards. We stopped every so often to listen, then quietly waded on. We cast nervous glances, heads turning from side to side, carefully searching in cavern-like hollows and seemingly endless, shadowed tunnels. We made slow but steady progress.
A while later, at a blind corner, Skelm held up his hand, his head was cocked to listen. We came to a standstill. Then, Gordon and I heard it too! It was the sound of powerful wading made by a heavy animal. We listened. As it got closer, the noise got louder. The buffalo was heading towards us!
Skelm moved out of our line of fire. We raised our rifles, ready to shoot. In my mind’s eye, I could see the bull as he waded slowly, body tormented by pain. The snare embedded deep into his neck, head down and horns spread wide…
Suddenly – two huge bush pigs, covered in muck, filled my real sight! They stopped as if they had walked into an invisible wall. Tense seconds passed in a battle of wills. We stood like statues. A loud snort penetrated the silence. They surrendered, wheeled about, and in a roar of water, vanished. The tension broken, we grinned, relieved.
Later, as the sun rose we came to the river, where the reeds rattled in the swift current’s flow. The bullrushes overhead thinned as we emerged into an opening over a pool of water. Out of sight, and behind a mound of creepers, we heard the distinctive, “zhhhhhhh” of red-billed ox-peckers. Their alarm call betrayed the buffalo’s presence. Typically, they flew into the air, then dived straight back.
Our hearts were in our mouths. Gordon checked the wind with a cigarette. It had remained true to us. The Dagga Boy was on the move, wading through the floodwaters. All of a sudden, he appeared on spit of high ground. Gordon fixed him in his sights.
“Don’t shoot! It might be a different bull!” I said.
I raised my glasses, full of pity as I watched shake his head repeatedly in irritation. The ox-peckers flew off, only to return and feed off his open wounds. Some scurried over his body. Others hung under his neck, upside-down. Powerful little beaks tore off bits of raw flesh.
We took no chances, aimed for the tormented buffalo’s shoulder, and fired together.
The ox-peckers took flight, and the buffalo, with a heart shot, ran a few paces, slowed, and folded out of our sight. Sargent and Constable still high in their tree also heard the mournful death bellow, and shouted with excitement.
We sat in the water and put our boots on. Rifles over our shoulders, we waded waist-deep – our buffalo was lying on a small island. Like mini vultures the ox-peckers had continued to feed. As we approached, they buzzed once more and took flight.
The wire snare had done its cruel work, looped over and under one side of the jaw and horns. It had cut deeply into his throat and pulled tight between the bosses. We covered him with reeds. After a long footslog we finally reached our vehicles now parked on our side of the river – the completed bridge was in the background. Mac-cloud and his smiling men welcomed us back…
The clouds rumbled and rain sheeted down.
The Musondwedsi River rose and the buffalo disappeared…
Geoff started his professional career at
Zambia Safaris in 1971 and also became
a Honorary Wildlife Ranger in 1977, in
Zambia. He hunted in Tanzania from 1990
up to 2006[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_single_image][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14288,14289,14290,14291,14292,14293″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
The Dark Continent and Black Deathhghghghg
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]South Africa: 2015
The Dark Continent and Black Death
By James Field
A close encounter with a four metre black mamba on my second safari for my first Cape buffalo, made the exciting event even more exciting. Previously, I had hunted plains game in the Eastern Cape Province – now I wanted to go up against the legend of what many of the old hands refer to as “Black Death”.
“Black Death” – the dramatic description comes from the reputation for vindictiveness of the Cape buffalo towards those who pursue them. Many hunters and guides have been stalked, attacked and killed by an enraged animal – not too surprising if you upset these 2000lbs plus beasts by shooting them. And they do take some killing.
These seemingly docile bovine animals are the ones to be wary of if the first shot doesn’t kill. As everyone knows, they tend to either run away or charge the hunter, both events highly dangerous, the former being the more unpredictable situation of the two.
Of course, any beast that has been shot but not immediately killed must be despatched as soon as possible. But even when heart-shot, buffalos have the most extraordinary stamina and may live for a surprisingly long time, during which they are renowned for circling around behind the hunter and bursting from nearby undergrowth in a full and surprisingly fast charge to wreak bloody revenge with those wickedly curved horns and razor-sharp hooves.
This reputation is also likely to be a consequence of hunters walking past where an injured beast is laid up, when it subsequently – and not unreasonably – attacks from cover as they approach or pass by.
Buffalo are not in any way endangered and the southern savannah variant I hunted is one of three African sub-species – there are well over three quarters of a million, making them the least vulnerable animal of the fabled Big Five. Like much of Africa’s wildlife now, the vast majority now exist on privately owned land, mostly game farms or wildlife conservancies.
And so, in 2017 I found myself hunting a free-range Cape buffalo bull on one of the larger privately owned hunting areas in Mpumalanga Province, South Africa, a few miles away from the Kruger National Park and the border with Mozambique. Called Maurice Dale, and about 20,000 acres (80km²), it is owned by the well-known conservationist John Hume, who is renowned for his work in breeding white rhinos.
According to some, he is the biggest private owner and breeder of these animals in the world. It is said that he has a greater number of rhinos than the entire present population of that in Kenya, the country which was once famous for the hunting of its super-abundant wildlife by the great hunters of yesteryear, such as Theodore Roosevelt, Robert Ruark and Ernest Hemingway.
Sadly, when hunting in Kenya was banned in 1977, only poachers benefited, leading to the disastrous decline in animal numbers, the scale of which is surely one of Africa’s biggest scandals. Furthermore, the poachers’ methods are anything but humane: poisoning, snaring and shooting with automatic AK-47s is typical, even today, with the carcasses left to rot, and scavengers frequently dying from the poisoned meat. Ironically, it was claimed that the establishment of a ban on hunting in Kenya was to limit the damage caused by the ivory trade, but without the value-based stewardship by those over whose land these animals roam, it has become an impossible situation where only the illegal poaching trade profits.
I was with my friend and PH, Andy Renton, of Kei River Safaris, for my third safari, to hunt a second buffalo. Previously, I had used that most traditional of guns, a double rifle in .470 Nitro Express caliber. Superbly efficient, perhaps to the point of it being a slight anti-climax – even though I made the mistake of putting the soft nose round in the left barrel, when it should have been the right.
Nevertheless, a front trigger heart shot at 30 yards with a .470 solid did the trick. The follow-up shot confirmed matters, and after running a mere 15 yards, the buffalo succumbed.
This time, to add variation and a little more spice, I chose to use a bolt-action rifle in .375 H&H Magnum, the minimum legal caliber for dangerous game. A tuned Sako 85 topped with a Schmidt & Bender 1.1-4×24 scope was my choice, which, using premium Norma PH ammunition, later accounted for several species of plains game up to 190 yards away. More rounds, but less knockdown power than a larger caliber double – and the scary possibility of a miss-fed round when one least wants it!
After two days of quartering the estate in sweltering weather and following spoor to locate small herds several times but finding no shootable bull, our tracker, scrutinising the ground, suddenly looked up and gave us a huge white grin, and told us that he had found evidence of a small group of bachelor bulls and that he thought it likely one of them would meet our criteria; how these guys can tell these things from the spoor, I really don’t know.
For three hours we followed the tracks on foot and eventually glimpsed the three bulls just as they ambled into heavy undergrowth to get out of the 38°C midday sun. One of them was perfect! We stealthily made our way, my PH, the outfitter’s two sons and me to within 60 yards of the three bulls, and in the shadow of an overhanging acacia tree behind some low undergrowth we set up the shooting sticks.
I placed the rifle on them – and then ‘my’ bull lay down, the other two remaining standing… Well, at least it allowed me to relax a little, but for an hour and ten minutes we all stood there, silent and immobile, with the light wind in our faces and me continuing to hold the rifle ready on the sticks, my team pressing close behind me. Sheldon, the younger of the two Afrikaner boys, had been filming the pursuit with a video camera but now, disappointingly, the battery was nearly flat. Brendan, the older one and who was to be my dedicated backup with his .460 Wetherby rifle, was commendably alert. However, I noted that Andy was in a very cramped position and was keen to move to a more comfortable stance.
Suddenly – at last – there was movement. My bull stood up, but for a further long eight or nine minutes he stood directly in front of one of his chums, denying me a shot in case of a shoot-through.
Then the one behind him slowly moved away and, “Smoke him!” Andy murmured in my ear. Less than a second later, my rifle kicked and I immediately reloaded with a solid, watching all three of the buffalo run to my right, crashing through the undergrowth, across a track, and into another thick stand of miombo. I knew it was a good shot but it still surprised me that he could run like that.
Then, with Brendan alongside me, his hand firmly on the back of my left shoulder to let me know where he was without me having to look, we advanced to where they had disappeared and maneuvred so we could see into the undergrowth. Then the target buffalo appeared, broadside on, walking slowly across a glade just 50 yards in front of us – I instantly fired again, raising a tell-tale puff of dust from his right shoulder.
“Perfect shot James,” Andy murmured as Brendan also fired a shot, as by now the priority was to put this beast down, as much for humane reasons as to protect ourselves from a charge by this extraordinarily tough animal. But once again he ran! Reloading, we reached the strike point, turned towards where he had disappeared, scanning everywhere, the tension and the focus absolute – then after another fifty yards, suddenly, there 20 yards away in the dark shadows I made out the unmistakable outline of those deeply curved horns, just waiting for us a few feet into the undergrowth, and without any hesitation I shot again, as did Brendan. Surely the buffalo was now dead? After five well-placed, heavy caliber shots, it was impossible that he still lived, but in the well-known words of many who’d gone before us I remembered that, “it is the dead ones who kill you.” So, very cautiously approaching from behind, I placed a final shot in the base of his neck. The hunt was over.
The tension instantly evaporated, bringing a mixture of fatigue and elation, but also sadness, to all of us. Then began the appreciation of the animal, the round of handshakes, and the photographs. Maybe I had brought the weather from England with me, and it then started to rain, a cooling but welcome warm tropical shower. It was not unpleasant, and gave us a chance to radio for the recovery team to make their way to us, which took an hour and half to arrive. During this time, we realised that Andy was in some pain. Because of his cramped position while we were waiting to take that first shot, when I pulled the trigger and set everything in motion, he lost balance as moved and staggered against a thick African thorn at shin height. The thorn penetrated and broke off seven centimetres into his shin. It sometimes seems that every shrub, tree and bush in Africa is either pointed or hooked. I subsequently learned that it took Andy three trips to hospital to have a further piece of that thorn taken out each time.
The removal of this buffalo benefited the herd which had grown too large for the available resources and it was clearly past its prime, as indicated by a heavy tick infestation. (A bite from one on the back of my leg was probably what gave me the rather unpleasant dose of tick fever I later suffered…) The meat entered the local food chain, and we were pleased to be reminded that as visiting hunters we were also helping to provide employment and support to the local economy.
I thoroughly enjoyed the hunt, perhaps responding to some ancient genetic programming. Who knows? What I do know is that this will not be the last time I visit Africa; perhaps Namibia or Zimbabwe next time, or Zambia where the people seem particularly happy and welcoming.
But where will it be?[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14280,14279,14278,14277,14276″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Hidden Treasure – Non-Exportable Elephant Hunts
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]Zimbabwe: September 2017
Zimbabwe’s Hidden Treasure – Non-Exportable Elephant Hunts
By Tom Murphy
Don’t ever let it be said that hunting a non-trophy elephant isn’t hard work…
Zimbabwe is lousy – it’s lousy with elephants. My wife and I were on a 7-day non-exportable elephant hunt, September of 2017. Over that time we saw an estimated 1200 elephants. We saw them singly, in small herds, and in large herds that our PH, Ross Johnston of Martin Peters Safaris, said contained over 100 elephants. We saw them every day, along with various plains game, including kudu, waterbuck, and even a large herd of sable.
We flew from Las Vegas via Joburg where we overnighted, then to Victoria Falls where we were met and taken to our hunting area – Matetsi Safari Area #5 – a little after midday. We got settled in our room, and I took my .416 Ruger Hawkeye out to the range for sighting in. That done, it was sundowners, supper, and sleep.
Six in the morning saw us up, and by seven we were in the safari truck and out looking for a legal non-exportable elephant. To qualify as a non-trophy, or non-exportable elephant, the animal could not have any ivory showing whatsoever. Nor could it have a young calf. The animal stays in the country, is butchered, and the meat divided up among villagers. Importing elephant parts into the USA is so difficult that hunting a non-exportable elephant, and taking only photos is an excellent way to have an elephant hunt. Plus, the cost is considerably less.
Matetsi #5 area is huge. There are over 14,600 square kilometres from where we entered the hunting area to the border with Hwange National Park, the largest natural reserve in Zimbabwe. There are no fences all the way to Botswana – a distance of 160 kilometres, and there are no fences in Botswana. Hunting the Matetsi is about as free range as it gets in Africa.
About two hours into our first day hunting, we ran across a herd of 20-plus elephants. This set the tone for the entire hunt – lots of elephants. However, this day we didn’t see any that were legal. The herds had some fairly large bulls and a lot of cows, but all of them had ivory showing. We returned to camp just before dark, tired, hungry, but happy with our day. This was my wife’s first safari – first trip to Africa, for that matter. She was so excited that she said she would probably have trouble sleeping. Well, I guess you can call three minutes of tossing and turning trouble sleeping, but she didn’t move until the camp manager knocked on our door the next morning.
The next few days we saw many head of game, just nothing shootable. It never got dull, though. Our tracker, Fani, would stare off into the distance, then look down and whisper, “Elephant.” Of course, I could see nothing except grass, trees, and rocks. But Ross would drive a bit closer, until even I could see the herd. Out would come the binoculars to scan, but no huntable elephant was found.
Day 4 started out the same. More elephant, but nothing legal. Then Fani spotted a herd. Ross stopped the well-used (285,000km) safari truck, and Fani climbed up on top the cage to get a better look. After five minutes he jumped down, and I could tell by his face that the hunt was on. He said there was one good-sized elephant in the herd that we should go take a look at.
Out of the truck, I loaded a 400-grain stopper into the chamber of my Ruger, slid on the safety, and tried to keep the adrenaline rush down to a slow roar. There was a slight rise between us and the elephants, so we were able to stay below the crest and approach quite closely. Due to the wind, we had to circle around to approach the herd from downwind, and this turned a short stalk into a long walk. We halted just on the crest of the hill, about 200 yards from the herd, and looked them over carefully. There was just one legal elephant in the herd, so we decided to take it. It took another 15 minutes of hiking to get where Ross figured we were 35-40 yards from the herd. We crested the hill. The elephants were slowly closing on us, but they had no idea we were anywhere around. Fani spotted the tuskless – and the calf that walked up behind it!
It was a long walk back to the truck.
The fifth day was a repeat of the first three. However, we spotted a herd of sable led by a bull that was so nice that I seriously considered doing a deal with the devil, but common sense and a very thin wallet made us bid them goodbye and continue chasing pachyderms.
Day 6 dawned clear and comfortable, just like the rest. The boss said she would stay in camp, and would I be so good as to take care of this “elephant business” while she did important things involving soaps, ointments and oils. Off we went, bouncing over hill and dale… and rivers, rocks, tree limbs, and various other impediments that made for an interesting ride. I was sitting up top between Fani and London, the other tracker. Every time the truck did a bounce, twist, and drop, I had to hang on for dear life. My right shoulder still hurts.
Near as one mile from the camp as made no difference, Fani spotted a herd that had just crossed the road, and was no more than 200 yards from us. They were in some trees, and it was impossible to sort them out from the truck, so we wore off some shoe leather and took a look. The only shootable elephant was just a tad too young, and we returned to the truck.
By now, we had probably seen 800-900 elephants, but watching them never got boring. A couple of times we were able to get quite close to them before they caught our wind and slowly moved off. This happened again just two hours after the first herd, but still no luck.
Lunchtime was rapidly approaching when Fani said he saw another herd out about 600 yards -my estimation. He just pointed and said, “There.” He and Ross balanced on the safari cage and scoped out the herd. Ross said there was a good, shootable elephant. Not a really large one, but a good one, nonetheless. We closed a bit, then left the truck and set off on a stalk. The herd was split in two. The tuskless was in the second group that was behind the rest of the herd. The wind was totally wrong for a frontal approach, so we headed off downwind to avoid the first herd. That didn’t work, so we dropped back a couple of hundred yards. The elephants were moving slowly downhill, and Ross figured that they would cross in front of us as they walked. They weren’t moving very fast, so Ross and I parked under a tree while Fani and London watched the herd.
I had just about drifted off when London ran up to us and said the elephants were moving. Ross looked at me and said that here was the chance, and that I should give some serious thought to getting my lower fundamentals in motion. I’ve had both knees replaced, so getting to my feet in a hurry is like watching a very large clown get out of a very small car. Just without the humor.
We had about 200 yards to cover, and ten lifetimes later (about 10 minutes, max.) I found myself with the rifle on the shooting sticks while trying to get my breathing down to where the crosshairs on the scope would settle down. Somewhere around 20-25 elephant had crossed in front of us no more than 30 yards away. They were off to our right and moving away. Ross pointed to the left and said to wait until I had a broadside shot. This was the one we had been stalking. I double-checked that the safety was off, and got down on the scope (Leupold 2.5x). Both eyes open, I could see the elephant as it walked into the crosshairs.
“Take this one?” I threw at Ross.
“If you have a good target, sh…”
“Bang,” said my Ruger.
The elephant stumbled 25 yards and slowly corkscrewed into the dirt.
We had looked at about 800 elephants over six days before finding this one – and there was no taxidermy – only photos.
Tom is a long-time adventure writer, currently for print and Internet media. He’s been on safari in Botswana, South Africa and Zimbabwe, hunted with rifle and handgun, and taken a giraffe and a lion with a S&W 500 Magnum. His first hunt was in 1967, and his first African safari was in 1995 when, at age 50, he hunted Cape buffalo in the Okavango Delta of Botswana.
Box
The Rifle and Ammunition
I used a Ruger Hawkeye Alaskan in .416 Ruger caliber. It’s eight pounds of stainless steel with a black synthetic Hogue stock and a 20-inch barrel that was ported by Magnaport. Recoil is a bit stout, but with the four ports, it’s no worse than a .338. The scope is a Leupold 2.5×20 Compact. Ammunition is by Hornady, and is their Dangerous Game 400-grain round nose solid. Muzzle velocity is 2,400 fps, and muzzle energy is right at 5,115 foot pounds – about the same as a .416 Rigby, but in a shorter barrel and smaller case. The bullet hit right behind the right shoulder and exited almost the same place on the other side, having traversed the heart in the process. The bullet was not recovered. The hunt was provided by: discountafricanhunts.com
Captions proofed
1. 1.jpg The view from our camp shows the emptiness and solitude of the Matetsi Safari Area.
2. 2.jpg Our home away from home. We saw no other people throughout the entire hunt.
3. 3.jpg This fellow decided that a dip in the Zambezi River was just what he needed.
4. 4.jpg This is a quick shot of some of the elephants we saw during our time in Matetsi.
5. 5.jpg The end of a successful hunt for a non-exportable elephant. The only trophies were photos.
6. 6.jpg I’m in the process of cutting off the tail. This establishes ownership.
7. 7.jpg I used this Ruger .416 Alaskan on the hunt. It fires a 400-grain bullet at 2,400 fps and 5115 foot pounds of muzzle energy.
8. 8.jpg Yesterday’s dinner for a pair of lions. There wasn’t much left of this Cape buffalo.
9. 9.jpg We ended our hunt with a few days at Victoria Falls. This was an amazing way to end a great hunt.
10. 10.jpg Ho hum – another beautiful sunset on the Zambezi River.
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