Apr 23, 2018 | News
[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]
Apr 20, 2018 | BackPage, News
[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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Apr 13, 2018 | HS8 -Mike Ambrose, News
[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]
Apr 9, 2018 | HS7 RSA Impisi Norris, News
[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]
Apr 3, 2018 | HS5 RSA BuffaloJames Field, News
[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]
Apr 1, 2018 | News
[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.
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Mar 23, 2018 | HS2 Zimbabwe Elephant Murphy, News
[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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Mar 10, 2018 | News, Rifles for Africa
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]An unlikely marriage sent hunters afield with the finest bolt rifles of their time – and ours!
By Wayne van Zwoll
“…Within three yards of the bracken I saw a movement … my first bullet raked her from end to end, and the second bullet broke her neck.”
So died the Talla Des tigress, named, as was the custom, after the village that had endured her predation. Colonel Jim Corbett carried that .275 Rigby rifle, hunting other man-eaters in the Kumaon Division of India’s United Provinces. He noted it was “light to carry, accurate and sighted up to 300 yards.” Its feathery heft counted for more than its reach. While Corbett hiked long miles in difficult terrain, his kit often trimmed to just five cartridges, shots commonly came at mere feet!
Among the most celebrated of hunting rifles is the bolt-action Rigby presented to Corbett in 1907 for dispatching the Champawat tigress, which had reportedly killed 436 people. Today that rifle shows the wear of many trails. Marc Newton, Managing Director of Rigby, “brought it home” a couple of years ago. On a recent visit to Rigby’s shop at Pensbury Place, in a modest industrial district of London, I cheeked this rifle. Slim, lithe, with a nose for the target, it pointed itself, silvered bead in shallow notch.
Corbett’s day won’t return – but the rifle has, in the form of what Rigby calls the Highland Stalker – a nod to UK deer hunters who now climb after stags instead of crawling after tigers. Like its forebear, it features an 1898 Mauser action, a lean version of the single- and double-square bridge Magnum actions in the Rigby Big Game series marking the company’s resurrection.
“We’re re-building the brand,” Marc told me, “not re-inventing it. Pre-war Rigby magazine rifles exemplify the best of British gun-making. Our clients expect fine line and impeccable finish on rifles that shoot accurately, cycle smoothly and endure. We hew to traditional standards of quality, fit and finish.”
Reliable function mattered more to adventurers who carried early Rigbys into jungle and bush. In 1948, after 30 years hunting Africa’s big game, John Taylor wrote: “Time and again have I slammed that bolt back and forth when shooting rapidly; yet never once did [my Rigby] show the slightest tendency to jam …. [There’s no] better or more reliable magazine rifle….”
Rigby’s name entered the firearms industry many decades before the Mauser action that earned the brand plaudits in the smokeless era. Born in 1758, the first John Rigby opened a gun shop in Dublin. Two years after eldest son William joined him in 1816, John died. With younger sibling John Jason, the business became William and John Rigby, 24 Suffolk St., Dublin. In 1865 as John Rigby & Co., it opened an office at 72 James St. in London to sell “breech- and muzzle-loading guns, revolvers and ammunition.” In 1879 Rigby announced a double rifle with a distinctive “rising bite” breech. Hand fitting buoyed cost and limited output. Between 1879 and 1932, Rigby would ship only 1,000 rising-bite doubles!
In 1887, as rifles and ammunition transitioned from black to smokeless powder, the third John in Rigby’s family was appointed Superintendent of the Royal Small Arms Factory. A decade later, he sealed for Rigby a 12-year license with Waffenfabrik Mauser, A.G. in Germany, to sell in the U.K. and its colonies the Rigbys with the new 98 Mauser action. It seemed an unlikely union, as European alliances had begun to fray well before the Great War. But both firms profited. When in 1899 Rigby requested a long action for the .400/350 Nitro Express, Mauser delivered.
With gunpowder maker Curtis & Harvey, John developed a powerful cartridge for hinged-breech rifles. The .450 NE 3¼-inch appeared in 1898, its 70 grains of Cordite driving 480-grain bullets to 2,200 fps, for 5,186 ft-lbs of energy. It drew the curtain on ponderous arms whose black powder limited velocity and whose lethality depended on projectile weight – like the 21-pound 4-bore rifle young Samuel Baker commissioned from George Gibbs in 1840. Its 16 drams (437 grains) of powder shoved a 4-ounce (1,750-grain) silk-patched bullet through a two-groove, 36-inch barrel.
The .400/350 Rigby may have brought Mauser’s Magnum action to London, but its rimmed hull was best suited to hinged-breech guns. A superior option for bolt rifles arrived in 1908. The .350 Rigby Magnum’s 225-grain bullet rocketed out the muzzle at over 2,600 fps. Taylor wrote that, “John Rigby was practically forced to introduce this cartridge [due to] demand for higher velocity… after the introduction of Holland’s .375 Magnum.” As the .375 H&H didn’t appear until 1912, that’s an odd claim. But Taylor was keen on both, praising the .350 as “intensely satisfying.” He wrote: “Rigby’s .350 Magnum is easily the most widely used British medium bore throughout Africa.” Since the 1940s other fine cartridges have crowded that podium. Taylor cautioned that fast .35s are not stopping rounds. An acquaintance “attacked by a peevish cow elephant [found] the 225-grain bullet [failed to turn her] … so she got to him …”
A more reliable elephant brake arrived in 1911. The first rifle in .416 Rigby shipped in 1912, as Rigby opened its shop at 43 Sackville St., London. This cartridge, hurling 410-grain bullets at 2,370 fps, carried 5,100 ft-lbs of energy, matching the .450 NE 3¼-inch. It ranked high on Taylor’s list of medium-bores, partly because “Rigby’s splendid steel-covered solids are available for it…”
David Enderby Blunt had similar praise for the .416, when in 1933 he chronicled a career hunting elephants. “The .416 Rigby… I have always used has the same muzzle energy as a .470, but the bullet has greater penetration, and [the Rigby Mauser is] the most perfectly balanced rifle …” Denis D. Lyell, who hunted extensively in Rhodesia, wrote in 1923 that “for body shots [on elephant] I certainly think a .416 or .470 H.V. is more humane [than small-bore loads.]”
The only hunter of great experience to spurn the .416 in print may be John Hunter, who thought it “excellent for lion” but light for buffalo and bigger animals. It’s hard to say if his view was colored by the death of his friend and tracker, killed by a buffalo wounded by a client who’d paunched it with a .416.
Much more effective than its BPE forebears, the .416 Rigby still sells well, thanks largely to the flat arcs and high sectional densities of its bullets. Still, it is not magic. Hunting in Zimbabwe recently, I came upon an aging baobab tree with a plaque noting the death of Alan Lowe. I had hunted with Lowe’s widow, Eleanor, then outfitting from the second farm the industrious couple had carved from the bush. Alan had taken a client on an elephant track late one afternoon. Heading back at dusk, he spotted elephant cows on the trail. Alan sent his tracker and client on a safer route as he held the herd’s attention. Darkness fell. The others found his body by torch-light. An elephant had killed him before he could fire his .416.
Why didn’t Rigby field a rimmed version of the .416 for hinged-breech rifles? By 1910 the safari market was drifting away from double rifles to less expensive but equally potent bolt-actions. The rimless .505 Gibbs and .500 Jeffery would appear shortly. John Rigby’s death in 1916 scotched development of a .33/416 that would drive 250-grain bullets 3,000 fps. (In the 1980s Lapua of Finland and a U.S. company, Research Armament, would take up that thread. Result: the .338 Lapua.)
Burly big-bores didn’t tug Jim Corbett, W.D.M. Bell and others from less violent first-generation smokeless rounds. The .275 Rigby is the 7×57 Mauser with an Anglo name. For 16 years after arriving in Africa in 1900, Bell used it (and the .303 British) to drop elephants with surgically placed brain shots. He reportedly killed 1,011 of the beasts, which brought him $9,000 to $36,000 a year in ivory sales. Bell had a couple of Rigbys in .416, but owned six in .275 – and one in .22 Savage High Power.
Like Bell, Corbett sometimes had a big-bore rifle at hand, most commonly a .450/400 double. On a beat (drive) for the Champawat tigress, he held a .500, loading two of his three cartridges and pocketing the other for “an emergency.” That man-eater’s tally had by then topped 400 people – half in Nepal, from where she’d entered Kumaon. When the tigress crossed a slot in the jungle in front of Corbett, he “sent a despairing bullet after her.” He’d just charged the empty barrel when she broke cover at 30 steps. He fired both remaining cartridges, striking, but not killing the cat. Abandoning his rifle, Corbett dashed toward the beaters, snatched from one a derelict shotgun and hurried after the tigress. Coming upon her in a thicket, he raised the gun and, to his horror, noticed a broad gap between barrels and breech. He let fly anyway at the cat’s open mouth – and missed! By great good luck, damage caused by the .500 took effect at just that moment, and the tigress died.
On the trail, Corbett preferred the light weight and wand-like handling of his .275. Both would pull him from one of the closest scrapes in his hunting career.
Deeply rutted pads and a cleft across the right forefoot distinguished the prints of the oldest of two tigers. The toes were exceptionally long as well. Corbett had found that track in a field three years after the Chowgarh tigers had begun preying on people. A trio of women cutting wheat there had been saved only when one of the beasts had been spotted and the alarm raised. Retreating into the jungle, the female and her cub would soon hunt again.
A couple of days later Corbett was shown by residents to a ravine where a cow had been killed the previous night. The spoor led into forest, where he spied the protruding leg of the luckless cow 30 yards ahead. It jerked as the big cats fed on the carcass. “… I crawled through the bracken [to a tall rock], looked over, and saw the two tigers.” Judging the light-colored animal to be the older, he aimed carefully and fired. She fell dead. The other cat vanished.
To his chagrin Corbett had shot the youngster. That error would “cost the district fifteen lives…”
By April, 1930, the surviving tigress had killed at least 64 people, and the persistent Corbett was again on her trail. In cover that held vision to mere feet, a pair of rare bird’s eggs caught his eye. He picked them up. Easing around a bend, he suddenly looked straight into the tigress’s face three steps away. The eggs in his left palm, he wrote, checked his reflexive urge to cheek the rifle – action that would have triggered the cat’s spring. Instead, with one hand Corbett inched the .275 across his chest. He felt “the swing would never be completed…” At last the rifle came to bear. His bullet shattered the man-eater’s spine and heart.
In 1951 the last of the Rigby family owners, Theo Rigby, died. The company plodded on. In 1968 David Marks bought John Rigby & Co. and engaged J. Roberts & Son to build its firearms. Paul Roberts acquired the Rigby brand in 1984, later developing the .450 Rigby cartridge on .416 brass. In 1997 Neil Gibson bought the company and moved it to California. A Dallas-based investor group dug up the cash to purchase John Rigby & Co. in 2010. They returned it to London and hired Paul Roberts to run it. Three years later Rigby was owned by the L&O Group, which controlled Blaser, Sauer and Mauser. Bernhard Knobel now manages those plants in Isny, Germany, and supplies Mauser actions for Rigby magazine rifles.
All Rigbys are built at Pensbury Place, where each is London-proofed. Such rifles don’t tumble from conveyor belts. “Between 1912 and 1940,” Marc Newton told me, “Rigby shipped fewer than 200 .416s! Annual production of all rifles hovered near 70. CNC machining has speeded some operations and brought our monthly tally near 70. Still, our rifles show a commitment to quality. At Safari Club International’s 2016 auction, a Rigby .275 sold for $250,000 – highest price paid for a bolt rifle in the Club’s 40 years!” More importantly, he added, each Rigby rifle brings to hand the adventure of another time, in jungle and bush, when hunters faced fearsome beasts close enough to read their eyes.
Captions:
1 – An instant hit world-wide, the ‘98 action showed Paul Mauser’s genius in military, and then hunting rifles.
2 – Mauser’s 1898 action has appeared in hunting rifles of many brands. No mechanism is more reliable!
3 – This Mauser bolt from a Rigby Magnum shows the long extractor, the slot for the mechanical ejector.
4 – Rigby’s Vintage Big Game rifle has pre-war profile, fit and finish. Note retracted cocking-piece peep.
5 – Currently, Rigby actions come from Mauser in Isny, Germany. The rifles are built and proofed in London.
6 – A 9.3×62 cartridge lies beside a lion track. Rigby offers the hugely popular “nine-three” chambering.
7 – Rigby lists its Big Game rifles in .375 (left), the Highland Stalker in 9.3×62, both fine classic rounds.
8 – Marc Newton, Rigby’s Managing Director, is delighted with the svelte, lightweight Highland Stalker.
9 – This early Rigby is bored to .350 Rigby, a cartridge dating to 1908, preceding the .416 by three years.
10 – Bell used the .275 Rigby (7×57), left, on elephants – but with solids. The .416 has more advocates!
11 – This Australian hunter brings his Mauser to bear in buffalo country. Note the rifle’s British profile.
12 – Dating to 1892, the .275 Rigby still excels on plains game. As the 7×57 Mauser, it served infantries.
13 – Rigbys have a fixed open rear sight with two (arguably unnecessary) folding leaves on a quarter-rib.
14 – Elephant hunters embraced the deep-driving 410-grain steel-jacketed solids of the potent .416 Rigby.
15 – The .416 Rigby hurls 2½ tons of punch. After a century, it remains a top-selling “safari cartridge.”
16 – Stopping a buffalo can be harder than killing one. A .275 soft nose is lethal, a .416 solid authoritative.
17 – Rigby rifles are built for the field, but they embody refinements – here, a case-colored trap grip cap.
18 – In thick African cover, hunters after dangerous game welcome Mauser reliability and Rigby quality!
19 – Jim Corbett’s book on hunting India’s great cats is a well-written account of his time and adventures.
20 – The grandson of the Talla Des man-eater’s last victim poses with the cat Corbett killed with his .275.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14190,14191,14192,14193,14194,14195,14196,14197,14198,14199,14200,14201″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Mar 9, 2018 | News, Rifles for Africa
[vc_row][vc_column][vc_column_text]More often than not, good hunting stories involve a great deal of hard work, no small measure of patience, and then a few moments of peril when all appears to be in jeopardy, before things come to a satisfying conclusion. The very best also tend to be accompanied by a tot or two of strong drink. The stories of the gunmakers who make such tales of intrepid adventure possible are not always as gripping. The tale of John Rigby & Company, however, is guaranteed to go down well. In this and future issues, we will be bringing you the fascinating tale of how the famous British gunmaker came to be where it is now, and what the future holds.
The Rigby story began in eighteenth-century Dublin, where the first John Rigby established the gunmaker that would go on to make his name synonymous with hunting adventure all over the world. The company moved to the heat of fashionable London in 1865, and the English capital became its sole base in 1897, when it closed its doors in Dublin for the last time.
At this point, Rigby was renowned around the world for building innovative, reliable, and devastatingly effective sporting guns and rifles. These included the phenomenally strong Rigby Bissell patented ‘Rising Bite’ action for best guns, and the company’s enormously successful bolt-action collaboration with German giant, Mauser. Rifles from Rigby’s workbenches played starring roles in dramas throughout the British Empire, expertly wielded by the likes of Jim Corbett, Denys Finch-Hatton and W. D. M. ‘Karamojo’ Bell.
The company stayed on track during the economically difficult inter-war years, and remained in family ownership until the middle of the 20th century. Having sailed past its 200th anniversary in 1975 with comparative ease, Rigby found itself facing the toughest challenge to date as the 21st century dawned. In 1997, the company was bought by an American investor, who moved production to California. Rigby’s sojourn to the West Coast was brief and ultimately unsuccessful. In 2010, two new investors stepped in and returned the business to the UK, with big-game expert Paul Roberts producing rifles under licence at J. Roberts & Co., which had a long history of working with Rigby.
In 2013, the L&O Group bought Rigby, and, under the direction of the dynamic young Marc Newton and the highly experienced Patricia Pugh, things started to look up. Having worked with Paul Roberts for many years, both Marc and Patricia had a deep-seated appreciation of Rigby and its history, and were determined not to let the once-great gunmaker fade away, but instead, to restore Rigby to its former glory. Most importantly, they wanted to build rifles worthy of the name Rigby.
Rigby was back on the trail of success, but there were still sizeable obstacles to overcome. Fortunately, both Newton and Pugh both know that nothing worth pursuing is easy, and their appetite for hard work was almost insatiable. Using a combination of contacts, charm, and the sentimental attachment to Rigby held by many in the gun trade, they assembled a small but exceptionally capable team, and the heart of the old gunmaker started to hammer more strongly as its workbenches came back to life.
“We knew it wasn’t going to be easy,” says Marc, who has been managing director since 2013, “But once we had the team together, I knew we had a good chance. With Patricia as financial director, along with supremely talented craftsmen like Mark Renmant, and Ed Workman supervising production, we had the ingredients we needed to get Rigby back to where it belonged.”
One of the first things that Marc did was to revive the historic association with Mauser. As with the collaboration overseen by the third John Rigby a century earlier, this venture offered customers high-quality, hand-finished rifles at affordable prices, with barrelled actions being shipped from Mauser’s factory in Germany to London, where Rigby’s gunmakers made them into beautiful, fit-for-purpose firearms. The result of this present-day association was named the ‘Big Game’, echoing the way its predecessors were described in Rigby’s ledgers.
The Big Game was an instant success with the public, and went on to win awards for best new rifle on both sides of the Atlantic. At first, it was available in either .375 H&H, .416 or .450 Rigby, in single or double-square bridge versions, with a modern, ergonomic stock shape, plus a wide selection of upgrades available. Since 2013, Rigby has introduced new models into the range, including the minimalist ‘PH’ and the ‘Vintage’, which has the traditional stock shape and specifications of pre-1940s rifles.
Another early – and momentous – decision that Marc made was to bring back the famous Rigby Rising Bite. Unlike the Big Game project with Mauser, this would need time to come to fruition. To build high-quality rifles on such a strong but technically complex action would take a minimum of three years. “We really needed people to have faith in us for this one,” admits Marc. “It was a lot to ask – even though we knew we had the skills to bring the Rising Bite back. Fortunately, we had some very far-sighted friends who believed in us. We couldn’t have done it without them, and I’m happy to say we now count them among our most valued clients and friends.
“Some of the proudest – and most exciting – moments of my career so far have been accompanying clients in the field as they put their new Rigbys to the test for the first time. It’s an immense privilege to watch as a rifle makes its way from being a collection of raw components on our workbenches to being a work of craftsmanship that’s beautiful, but will still work its socks off in the wilderness. Hunting in Zimbabwe with Adolfo Gutierrez and the first new Rising Bite was tremendous: from seeing the reaction of our guides to the first ‘boom’ when sighting in, to bringing down a Cape buffalo after some hard hunting.”
Before being blooded in Africa, this first new Rigby Rising Bite – a .470 Nitro Express – was exhibited to much adulation in February 2016 at the Safari Club International Convention in Las Vegas. It was the first time a rifle using this famously strong action had been built by Rigby for more than 80 years, and the excitement was intense: the order books practically filled up overnight.
Exciting though it was, the Rising Bite wasn’t the only rifle on the Rigby stand causing a stir in early 2016. Anything less would have been in danger of being eclipsed by the star attraction that year: a pair of bolt action rifles in .275 Rigby.
This pair shared a caliber, and had been built to identical specifications, but were strikingly different to look at. One had belonged to Col. Jim Corbett and had been used to despatch some of the most dreaded man-eating big cats ever to have stalked India’s Kumaon region. It bears a silver plate recording its presentation to the almost legendary hunter and tracker. It had the classic lines and elegance of a Rigby, but wouldn’t have made the cut in a beauty pageant for any other reason: almost none of the original blacking remained on its now silver metal work, and the wood of its stock was remarkable only for the dents and scratches it bore – some of which are specifically described in Corbett’s gripping memoirs. After a bit of detective work, Marc had tracked it down in early 2015, and arranged for the rifle to spend the rest of its days in Rigby’s London museum.
The second .275 had been crafted by Rigby’s current team to commemorate the original’s return and as a tribute to its esteemed owner. Featuring an exhibition grade Turkish walnut stock reminiscent of the rippling fur of a tiger padding through the forest, plus stunning engraving of animals, maps and scenes from Corbett’s adventures, it was a thing of exceptional beauty. It was Rigby’s offering for the SCI auction that year. It went on to sell for a record-breaking $250,000, making it the most valuable bolt-action rifle ever sold in more than 40 years of SCI auctions. It was bought by husband and wife, Brian and Denise Welker, who are both life-long Corbett fans.
Following a world tour and a visit to the Indian villages where it delivered so many from the menace of marauding big cats, the original rifle has been enjoying a rest in London, but will be making a special guest appearance at SCI Convention 2018. Corbett fans visiting the Rigby booth will also have an artistic treat, as up-and-coming sporting sculptor Jenna Gearing will be on the stand, working on a bronze of the great man facing down the dreaded Chowgarh man-eater.
The Corbett commemorative rifle represented the finest example to date of the third type of rifle available to clients of the reborn Rigby (at that time): the London Best. “The London Best is where Rigby really shines, and having had the creative freedom to make the Corbett tribute rifle for SCI, really gave our gunmakers an opportunity to show the world what they can do,” explains Marc Newton. “The Big Game is an essential part of what we offer – but if you want something bespoke from stock blank to scope mounts, it has to be a London Best. It’s always exciting for us to work so closely with a client and build a rifle to fit his or her needs down to the finest detail, and we’ve built some amazing rifles as a result.”
Since 2013, Rigby has specialised in finding promising young gunmakers and engravers from all over Europe, and giving them a chance to prove themselves. The current in-house team incudes a glut of Francophone talent: factory foreman Olivier Leclercq, gunmakers Brice Swieton and Martin Levis, and engraver Geoffrey Lignon; it also includes talented Slovak stocker Vlado Tomascik, plus English apprentice gunmaker Jamie Holland. This mixture of youth and experience has paid dividends at the company’s purpose-built factory in Pensbury Place, London.
Each rifle is a team effort, and the quality of the firearms leaving the workshop shows how well the team is working together. One of 2017’s highlights was the ‘Elephant Gun’, a .450 Rigby featuring exquisite hand-engraved elephant hide on every inch of exposed metal, which took more than 2,000 hours to complete.
With the Big Game, Rising Bite and London Best to choose from, you’d think that Rigby customers would be fairly well-satisfied, but you can never have too many rifles on your wish-list – so, in 2017 Rigby added a fourth line to its catalogue: the Highland Stalker. Like the Big Game, the new rifle is built on barrelled actions from Mauser and hand-finished by Rigby’s craftsmen in London. Available in .275 Rigby, .308, .30-06, 8×57, 9.3×62, it was inspired by and based on the rifles used by the likes of Bell and Corbett.
“For a while, people had been asking if we had plans for a smaller-caliber version of the Big Game,” Marc admits. “We have always been keen on the idea, but wanted to get it just right. We’re confident that we’ve done that, and it’s very satisfying to receive glowing reports from the field from those customers who’ve waited so long.”
Ideal for hunting deer the traditional way in the Scottish Highlands, the new rifle was unveiled to the sound of bagpipes at IWA in March 2017, and was officially launched to the sporting press later in the year with a stalking trip of appropriately Victorian vigour at the splendid Atholl Estate in Perthshire.
With so much achieved in such a short time, it’s hard to predict exactly what the coming years hold. With so much enthusiasm, energy and talent, the odds are that whatever it is, it will be good. Fortunately, Rigby has also recently created its own exclusive 18-year-old single malt Scotch whisky and Gunpowder Gin – both are available via its online Shikar Store – we suggest that, for now, you pour yourself a dram, and watch the future unfold.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”14183,14184,14185″][/vc_column][/vc_row]
Mar 6, 2018 | News, Rifles for Africa
Two of the most famous rifles ever to cross the Dark Continent—Home Again.
By John Mattera
There was a healthy chance that the young man sitting next to me in the small boat remained calm because he did not understand the gravity of our situation. The same thought had crossed my mind two hours earlier, as we had walked through the seven-foot tall elephant grass on the trail of a big old Dagga Boy. I was certain the old bull was not of good social demeanor under the best of circumstances. Now, he was mad at the world and with good cause, with 750 grains of lead in him.
A concerned look from Rob Oostindien, our steadfast professional hunter, reflected back through our line, for we all understood the potential danger. Then, there was the kid. He smiled at me; but not a nervous smile one would expect from a nineteen-year-old hired to film a buffalo hunt, with a wounded bull lurking about in the tall grass. No, this was a smile of true enjoyment. The kid was having a good time!
I have to be honest: It pissed me off no end, but he was such a likable kid, I shrugged it off as we continued at a snail’s pace looking for clues, hoping for the best, and fearing the worst.
Fear is a healthy part of any relationship, and my current rapport with the buff we were following was growing more intimate with each passing footstep.
Then, all too soon, darkness closed in as we pushed our luck past the point of good judgment.
Now we faced a long walk to the edge of the island, hopefully in the direction of the dugout canoe that had transported us across the treacherous Zambezi River.
You would think three savvy hunters would have packed a flashlight. Enter our cheerful video kid. Leave it to the nineteen-year-old to turn his cell phone into a flashlight. Two weary hunters, the PH, two trackers, and the kid all walking to the faint glow of his Samsung. God, I hoped his battery held out! The wounded buff was still entrenched in my mind.
An hour later, we stumbled upon the dugout along with our paddlers, climbed into the prehistoric tree hull, and began our coast to the western bank. Here is where my concern for the young man’s sanity had begun anew.
When I’m cast on the dark waters of sub-Saharan rivers, my mind drifts to all the big, nasty creatures that call those waters home. Giant crocs haunting the lower Zambezi can turn a man into a midnight snack with a chomp and two rolls.
I was cradling a legendary .470 Nitro across my lap. My hunting partner Bill Jones carried his big .577 Westley Richards— Papa’s rifle in a past life, no stranger to marine patrols, excepting submarines. The immediate enemy was a mouth-belching monster with a serious attitude problem a few yards away. Hippos are just nasty—there is no other way to describe them; they are nasty, plain and simple, and they were close!
I broke open the action of the Rigby and fingered the two soft rounds out of the chambers in the dark, slipping them into my shirt pocket. Feeling on my belt to where the solids lay tucked into the canvas-culling belt I slipped them inside the chambers, letting them fall home with reassuring clunks. I am certain it was just for moral support, as I could not see a thing on those dark waters. But I had more faith in my rifle than can be described in a few paragraphs.
The Rigby had performed Yeoman’s work in the greatest of hands. It had belonged to the Dean of Professional Hunters, Phillip Percival, who first made his claim to fame with the Teddy Roosevelt safari and far beyond. Common consensus is that payment for the Roosevelt safari was how he purchased the rifle I held now.
Then, reality set in again. The boatmen and trackers began to bang on the side of the little boat, hollering about—I assume they were hoping to scare away 3,000 pounds of hippo. I just pressed away a bit more varnish from the well-worn stock in my grip.
Through the eerie reflection of his phone light, I could see the kid was smiling again.
“What are you smiling at?”
“This is the best day of my life,” he replied with infectious enthusiasm.
I shook my head in resignation as my fear alternated on many levels.
First, of course, was fear of the dark. Then, there was my fear of the water.
Cold, dark water gets my respect, and my fear rises and falls depending upon my current anxiety level. Dark water and big animals that kill without the slightest remorse are all triggers for fear in my world.
After fear of death came fear of losing the rifle in my grasp. I remembered reading John “Pondoro” Taylor’s account of losing two batteries of fine rifles on separate occasions when hippo trashed his dugout close to where we now paddled on the Zambezi.
Could I let the priceless Rigby go to save myself, or would I let her drag me to the muddy bottom of the river?
My sole happy thought was that Bill carried “the beast,” Hemingway’s .577. The massive rounds in his culling belt alone could drag a man under.
Geez, I hoped he was a strong swimmer!
The beginning of this story started many years ago, for Hemingway and Percival had history. The history shared between the Rigby and the Westley probably went a little further. Winston Churchill Guest carried the big .577 on a safari in early 1933 with Percival’s hunting partner, the legendary Bror Blixen. Guest had stayed over at Percival’s Kitanga Ranch for a bit of shooting; one can assume the rifles then shared their first adventure. Later that same year, Percival was Hem’s PH on his first safari, having many a grand escapade, collecting five lions, a score of Cape buffalo, and much other game. In the course of events, Percival provided Hemingway with fuel for many great hunting stories. Immortalized by Papa as “Jackson Phillips” or “Pop,” in the Green Hills of Africa, it was also Percival who relayed to Hemingway the scandal involving Colonel John Patterson of Tsavo fame, which inspired The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.
Percival needs no introduction to anyone with even a passing interest in African adventures. The famed 11-month Roosevelt expedition of 1908 inspired Roosevelt’s book African Game Trails—the book that sparked young Hemingway’s first African interest. From those first writings, Percival walked off the pages – a living legend.
What brings these two great rifles to Africa once again is Bill Jones. His quest is to bring back legendary rifles of the past, sharing new adventures.
A rifle may be an inanimate object. However, if a rifle that has seen the charge of the elephant long ago and could tell the tale and speak to us, what a story it could tell. To once again see the thrill, taste the fear, choke on the dust, and broil in the sun is a gift for us: Bill Jones is sharing that legend.
The Rigby’s provenance is without question, with factory records, including an invoice listing supplied cleaning equipment, spare strikers and a tin-lined box with 200 cartridges, all sold to P.H. Percival at a 15% discount. There is also a ledger page in the company book that states the serial number, the overall rifle dimensions and weight and date of sale to Percival.
The gothic script across the top rib of the 26″ chopper lump barrels is engraved “John Rigby & Co Ltd 72 St James’s Street. London,” and sporting one standing, two folding leaf express rear sight with platinum lines marked for 100, 200 – and an optimistic 300 yards for those of us with young eyes. The tops of barrels are also engraved, “Special 470 Bore Big Game Rifle” and “For Special Cordite Cartridge & Bullet 500 Grains.” The action is engraved with well-cut large shaded scroll – “J. Rigby & Co” emblazoned on each side. With an empty weight of 11 pounds and 3 ounces, the rifle is all business.
The Rigby is refined and elegant, especially when placed side by side with the beast.
The Beast is a century-old Westley Richards hammerless, single-trigger drop-lock double rifle capable of sending a 750-grain bullet out of the muzzle at a little over 2000 fps. She is an English thoroughbred through and through, weighing in at a chunky 15 pounds 14 ounces, a behemoth designed to manage the heavy recoil from the .577 rounds.
The Westley is steeped in history; it has a lineage that creates a story of its own.
The big double changed hands a few times since it left Westley Richards in 1913. It was built for Stephen Henry Christie, a cavalry officer attached to the 20th Hussars, who had developed a taste for Africa as a young man. It was a unique, single-trigger full load .577 drop-lock action, heavy enough to handle the stout caliber, with scroll engraved over faded image of a charging rhino; 100, 200, and 300 express sights, and a ramped and hooded front blade with a pop-up moon sight.
Christie was planning to return to Africa once again. However, the Great War called and Christie answered, rejoining his regiment where he was killed in a cavalry charge on the Marne. For the next twenty years, the big double flew under the radar screen, but then showed up in New York in the company of Winston Churchill Guest.
Guest and Earnest Hemingway met sometime after their respective 1933-34 safaris; the two developed a friendship that would last their lifetime. Between them, these rogues had many adventures, not the least of which were their World-War-II anti-espionage exploits.
Guest traveled to Havana in September of 1942 to check on his family interest on the island nation; the Westley Richards .577 travelled with him. Guest soon became second-in-command of the Crook Factory, Hemingway’s home-grown counter-intelligence network and their attempts to capture Nazi agents operating in the Caribbean.
Next, Guest signed on board with Hemingway’s Navy, as his fishing boat, the Pilar, was outfitted with over $30,000 in radio and directional finding equipment – High Frequency Directional Finder (HFDF), known as “huff duff.” In the United States Navy’s volunteer-patrol-boat program it was unofficially known as Hooligan’s Navy. The intent was to pick up U-boat transmissions between German vessels by taking bearings from various HFDF locations and relaying the information back to Sub command. Hemingway’s true aspiration was to pose as an unsuspecting fishing boat and lure in German U-boats for attack. The theory was that the .577 would punch big holes in the steel hull of the vessel, while Hemingway’s crew would throw satchel charges down the conning tower. The scheme was classic Hemingway.
When Guest left Cuba, the big .577 stayed behind.
The new owner was Papa Hemingway who returned to the Dark Continent in the fall and winter of 1953-54 with the .577, shaking Philip Percival and the Rigby out of retirement for the adventure.
The big .577 next ended up in the hands of Hemingway’s Charles Thompson, immortalized as “Karl” the lucky hunter in Green Hills of Africa. Thompson explored Africa with the Westley once again to hunt elephant.
The Westley found its way to the James D. Julia Firearms Auction where Bill Jones fought off all comers while sitting on top of his safari truck in the long-closed hunting fields of Uganda, with a satellite phone pressed to his ear as the bidding soared.
When the auction closed, Bill Jones was the new owner and keeper of the faith.
Bill Jones is a hunter of the first order. “Old School” is the term that best applies when speaking of him. To say that Bill is one of the most prolific hunters of our generation is an understatement. Deeply in love with history and the golden age of Africa in particular. Be it hunting, filming video productions, or supporting cultural or anti-poaching projects, Bill Jones spends much of each year exploring the African Continent. So, what does a history aficionado with a passion for Africa do with such a storied piece of shooting lore?
If you were Bill Jones, you would take your 100-plus-year-old Westley and Rigby doubles and return with them to Africa to track dangerous game across its length and breadth. And for my good fortune, Bill invited me along.
Such historic rifles are one day destined for a museum where many people may share in their history – but not yet!
Their legend is still being written…
Bio
John Mattera is a retired US law-enforcement firearms instructor. An avid hunter and rifleman for over four decades, Mattera makes multiple safaris to Africa each year, where his love of the continent and large-caliber rifles fuels his passion for writing. He is the author of three books on shooting and tactics. Mattera divides his time between New York, Southern Africa, and the Caribbean where he works in marine archaeological research.
