A Dream, a Bow, and a Cape buffalo

Aug 8, 2017 | News

South Africa: April 2017
By Dan Leahy

No hides, no tree stands, no waterholes, and no food sources… Open ground, cutting tracks and stalking in. I wanted a Cape buffalo, hunted spot and stalk with a bow, and I wanted to do it my way. My chances of success would be small, but for me, any other way would not have been the same challenge or reward.

I had hunted many places in Africa, but never big game. Although I had dangerous-game ambitions, I only had a plains-game budget, not enough to chase my dream of hunting “Black Death” with a bow and arrow. But after much sacrificing, saving, and overtime shifts at work, my wife and I could make this hunt a reality. Our destination – Limcroma Safaris in South Africa, owned by my great friend Hannes Els.

I chose a 12-day safari in April-May. There would still be ample grazing grass and lots of green bush. It is incredible that animals the size of a Cape buffalo can disappear in dense bush. When grazing and relaxed, they can often be heard a hundred or more yards away, beating through the bush, their huge bodies and hard bosses making quite a ruckus. Yet, they can vanish silently, especially when they think they are being pursued.

On arrival in camp, we did the usual – preparing and assembling gear, and shooting our bows to ensure nothing had been damaged en route. The late afternoon was spent scouting, brushing the roads, and making a plan for early morning. Hannes said that there were several groups of buffalo, ranging from one or two lone Dagga Boys that had been ousted from the herds, to several bachelor groups of bulls of various ages, and several small herds of bulls and cows. Finding fresh spoor would not be the problem… Finding the right spoor would be the first challenge.

At dawn we headed out to one of the waterholes to check for fresh tracks. Hannes, our tracker Bolla, and our accompanying PHs Otto Bousema and Drian Laas, said there were at least six bulls that had watered sometime early in the morning – our best bet for the first stalk.

With binos and his .416 Rigby, Hannes led the hunting party 30-50 yards ahead, far enough to move alone in silence, but not out of sight. I led the rest, followed by Otto on the second rifle, our PH/videographer Drian, and my wife Lisa close by his side. Bolla stayed at the bakkie to monitor the radio. All of us were in full camo with face masks, and me in full hood and face paint.

Hannes followed the tracks. After about an hour we were given the hand signal – stop and get low. Hannes dropped to one knee and peered through the tall grass and dense brush. Before anyone could make another move, we heard the disappointing sound of heavy hooves pounding away. We had slipped up on a single bull, bedded down, that must have come in from a different angle. However, this was not the group we had been tracking, and no other buffalo seemed to spook from the immediate area. We regrouped and continued on the original spoor. By late morning the wind was swirling in every direction, and the animals were likely to be bedded down. Hannes suggested we back out till the afternoon when conditions were better. So, it was back to the bakkie for some lunch.

All morning I was wondering how I was going to get to get a clear bow shot in this terrain. I was constantly looking for shooting lanes and angles, and not finding many. I had originally figured I would draw and shoot from my knees. Not a problem, as for years I was comfortable and practiced shooting like that. But the problem would be to find a lane under 40 yards clear enough for a shot because, from my knees, the grass was at or over my head in most places.

After a wonderful bush braai of kudu sausage sandwiches, then a short siesta, we were back in pursuit, refreshed and optimistic. The wind was lighter now, but steady. We stalked about half a mile from where we left the tracks, and found our group of six bulls bedded – four shooters and two really nice shooters. We crawled almost 40 yards, found good cover, and settled down near them. It was an unbelievable experience to hear their deep, baritone breathing only yards away. We would have to wait until they got back on their feet to graze.

It was an hour before the first bull got up. The others joined him, one by one. As Hannes and Otto maintained cover, glassing our best option, one of the older bulls started to graze and work the bush toward us. He raked his tremendous bosses, cracking the branches and shaking the bush violently. It was incredible to see and hear such a beast that close!

Unfortunately, he got too close… He made his way to 15 yards before he was aware of us. He snorted loudly, putting the rest of the group on high alert. Hannes and Otto scrambled to their feet, grabbing me and Lisa by our collars to drag us to a safer position behind them. Rifles forward, we hastily backed out. Thankfully, the herd chose to flee rather than charge. You could literally feel in your chest the pounding of the hooves hitting the ground as they thundered away. I had never felt so helpless as at that moment. What a first day!

Six days passed. Each day we would start out as before – look for fresh spoor and pursue accordingly. We had several encounters, getting as close as 20 yards, but each time something would just not be quite right for a shot, or the wind would swirl and the buffalo would bust us. Often I could see a nose, a boss, or a hindquarter, but not the vital open shoulder that I needed for a lethal shot. The animal’s vitals would either be obscured by tall grass, bush or both. On one encounter, the hunting party a few yards behind me could see the entire head and shoulder of a shooter bull at 22 yards. Yet, from my vantage only a few yards to one side, I could only see the rear half of the body. No shot once again…

On Day 7, we began the hunt without Hannes who had a prior commitment, but we were in good hands with Otto and Drian. Our group of six bulls had relocated to a different place, grazing lazily a hundred yards ahead – in an open area! Perhaps I could get a shot.

The herd gradually made their way towards us, relaxed, grazing, and best of all, upwind. Otto decided to find suitable cover just ahead and sit tight to see what happened. Within 10 minutes the herd was 50 yards and closing.

“Get ready and nock an arrow,” Otto whispered. Holy crap, I thought, this might just happen! “Crawl to that bush and get ready for a shot,” he added.

As I slowly crawled, I kept peeking over my right shoulder to get an update. I could not see the bulls from my position. Otto had my rangefinder and hand-signaled: One shooter bull out front, 40 yards from me. From my forward position, I put the bull at 35, and set my single-pin Truglo Rangerover sight for 35 yards. One last peek over to Otto… Another signal: He’s coming – go ahead and draw!
I could just make out tips of his horns over the top of the crossberry bush. I reminded myself to remain calm and focused… Control my breathing. Pick a spot and release…

I smoothly drew the bow and leaned out from behind the bush. The massive shoulder of the bull came into full view. No tall grass and no bush this time… All black and LOTS of it! I swept the pin up the front leg, settled it on the sweet spot mid-body, and touched off the arrow. The arrow hit the bull with a resounding thwack! He thundered away with the yellow and white trademark fletching of the Grizzlystik arrow embedded in his shoulder, but there was still a lot of arrow sticking out. It should have buried to the fletching at the very least. It also looked a bit high… Much higher than where I put the pin.

I glanced back at the rest of the group for reassurance. I got none…

“Look high to you?” I asked Otto. “Maybe a bit.”

“I’m not thrilled with the penetration either,” I added. “What did you range him at?” “Twenty-two yards from me where you shot him.” “What do you mean 22 yards? What the hell happened to 40 yards? I set my pin to 35… From where I was, if you got him at 22, he must have been more like 17.” “A different bull came out that was even closer,” he said. “I thought you saw it.”

“No, man, I didn’t.”

If he was inside 20, it was definitely going to hit high. There is a solid 10-12” drop differential from 17 to 35 yards with these heavy arrows. I should have recognized that he was much closer than 35 and made the mental adjustment. I got tunnel vision in picking the spot and focusing on that. All I could think about was hitting my spot. I didn’t realize there was another bull 15-20 yards closer.

Drian had the shot on video. It definitely hit some shoulder bone, but maybe I got the top of one lung if the arrow pierced the bone. There were a few spots of blood on the ground where the bull stood. So we headed back to the road to meet up with Bolla and make a plan for the tracking job ahead. It was a nervous walk back to the bakkie.

Otto called Hannes about the situation, and he sent Franz to the rescue. Franz is one of the best Cape buffalo trackers in Africa. Not just RSA… all of Africa. He is the African equivalent of Winston Wolf from the movie Pulp Fiction. Franz earned the local nickname “Buffalo Assassin” and with good reason. After watching this guy work, I could see why.

When Franz arrived, the track was about 90 minutes old. We pointed at the spot, and Franz was off. Within minutes he told Otto that the bull was dragging his right front hoof. Ten minutes into the track, Franz stopped and walked around in a 10-yard radius, using his shooting sticks to part grass or push branches away. He whispered to Otto that our bull was no longer with the herd. There had been a scuffle. Likely, the other bulls had smelled the blood, sensed the weakness of the wounded bull, and forced him from the group. We were now on a single track.

We also had Otto’s hunting dog Impy, an impressive tracker if there is any blood. He would bark an alarm when the bull was found, and help to keep it distracted until we could close in. Twenty minutes later we heard Impy’s frenzied bark from a thorn thicket a hundred yards ahead. We raced up as I nocked another arrow. In a blur, I drew my bow, guessed the range at 40 yards, and shot. The second arrow buried itself it deep into the crease of the wounded bull’s shoulder. It looked good, but we waited before taking up the track again.
We were now tracking a severely wounded Cape buffalo. This was no joke. Our pace slowed. Every team member warily scanned the bush, peering into thickets, looking for a patch of black before moving on. With safety off and rifle bolts locked down, we cautiously continued. We had only gone another hundred yards when Franz dropped to a crouch, and pointed out the bull bedded in a heavy thorn thicket 50 yards ahead. The buffalo’s head was down, but Otto said he was still breathing, and we were confident that the second arrow would soon prove to be lethal. However, the bull was deep in a spot that was too dense for a third arrow shot.

I asked Drian for his .375 H&H to finish the job. I did not want to push the bull any farther or make him linger any longer than necessary. It was also a decision of safety for the entire team. He could expire in the next few minutes or could charge. These animals are at their most dangerous when wounded. Over the years, too many “dead” buffalo have injured or killed many hunters, trackers and PHs who failed to give a mortally wounded animal due respect. It was the right call…

The .375 soft point hit him squarely on the shoulder. “Keep shooting!” shouted Otto and Drian. I slammed two more solids into the body, and the impressive animal was down for good. As we approached my buffalo, I was overwhelmed with different emotions – elation, relief, accomplishment, and some regret for putting this incredible creature through more than it should have endured had my initial shot been better. I had never before experienced such an emotional roller coaster of highs and lows on the same hunt. We all took a brief moment of silent respect, before celebrating with handshakes and hugs for a truly team effort.

I cannot say enough about the skill and professionalism of the team that made this hunt possible. Hannes Els and his staff are altogether the most wonderful individuals that I have ever hunted with. My heartfelt thanks goes out to all of them.

BIO

Born and raised in southeast Florida, Dan Leahy grew up hunting and fishing in the Everglades, Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic Ocean. After running sport-fishing charters locally, he later became a firefighter/paramedic, now in his 18th year of service. For the last nine years he has been the US-based representative of Limcroma Safaris in marketing and safari consultation. He and his wife enjoy an outdoor lifestyle of fishing and hunting all over the globe.

One Lucky Lady

Aug 8, 2017 | News

South Africa: 2007
By Wade Gear

She heard the truck that first day. It seemed to crisscross through her home range, and although it was a constant droning sound it did not affect her rest under the shade of the mopane trees. Her home range was surrounded by thick mopane, and although it overlapped with two young males from her own bloodline, it offered the protection she needed as well as good hunting. She was alone, had not mated in several years, so she hunted only for herself.

It was a very hot July, and her thirst got the better of her early on the second day. The watering hole at Edmonsburg was close by and she knew the elephants would not be there that early. She drank in the muddy water and returned to the protection of the mopane to wait until dark when she could hunt again.

It was late in the afternoon when she first noticed it. Although faint, it was something she would never forget – the smell of humans. While the breeze only brought the slightest scent she knew they were in her territory and it immediately brought back memories from when she was a young adult – the odor, the burning sensation in her hindquarter, the collar on her when she woke. She needed to move to another area to put more distance between her and the humans, so as nightfall came she hunted to the north.

On the third day she noticed it again. It was mid-afternoon. First the distant sound of the truck, then the faint smell, then voices much too close for her liking. The area she had chosen was thick mopane about six feet high, and the ground underneath was sandy. As she lay there testing the air and listening, she realized that they were moving in her direction. When they drew near her she sprang up and growled viciously. As they hesitated, she slipped away, following a well-known path that led her away, slightly circling the humans. In the thick brush she was confident that she had not been seen.

But they were closing in. She moved off at a trot, now headed back to the west. As she crossed a road she saw the vehicle – the man in the back did not see her though she was only 75 yards away. She immediately kept to the thickest areas of brush, taking her pursuers through it and slowing them down in the process, but now she had lost the wind. She needed it in her favor, so once again she circled and headed east back to where she had been.

After several hours of trying to evade her pursuers, she was over-heated and thirsty and needed to head back to Edmonsburg for a drink. As she was about to move back to the south she scented a black rhino, and skirted it at 25 yards, slightly downwind. She heard the commotion, snorts, and the silence that followed as her followers were distracted by the rhino. When darkness fell she heard the drone of the engine fading in the distance, and approached Edmonsburg for a drink. Then it was time to hunt again.

Her territory was large, and as she hunted she once again moved farther south and east from where she had been. Her constant pursuit had taken its toll – the heat and lack of sleep and food was making it more difficult to hunt. And on the fourth day, just after sun-up there it was again – the unmistakable drone of the engine.

Her pursuers came fast. They followed her for miles, pushing and pushing, and by mid-day she needed that drink, and she headed for the stream. She did not know if the stream had any water left, but with the thick brush there was a good chance, and the cover would help conceal her. But the pools had dried up and the cover was too thick to allow her free movement. She was cornered between the mopane and the riverine brush which checked her stealth. At one point she was totally exposed, but with one bound she was hidden again. She moved almost towards her pursuers, looking for the chance to cross the small opening and get back into the thick mopane.

A bushbuck was bedded down close by – she moved so that it would get her scent. The bushbuck snorted and broke. That was her chance. Once again the commotion gave her just enough time to clear the opening on her belly without being seen. She was back in the mopane, but still they followed.

Finally, she was given a break. Her pursuers stopped, which gave her the time to find a shade tree that had a view of her back trail. Taking advantage of the breeze she waited and rested until once again she knew they were following. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity she broke and made for deeper cover, driven by fear, anger and thirst.

Shortly after sunrise on the fifth day she heard the vehicle again. She waited until they were close before she roared and headed off downwind to keep the rancid scent of the humans in her nostrils. This time she kept them close, only moving when it was necessary to remain hidden. But the humans pushed her hard, keeping her moving. She circled close by and behind them, continuing until at one point the scent of the humans was all around her as she walked over her own tracks and theirs. As the sun burned down still hotter she needed water, and broke from her pattern of endless circles and figures-of-eight, and headed towards the waters of Edmonsburg.

There she found a shady spot facing into the breeze, stretched out and slept peacefully the remainder of the day.

Dawn the sixth day found the cat in an area surrounded by mountains on three sides, more open, but almost devoid of roads. It was mid-morning when it happened. The wind had covered the sound of the approaching enemy till suddenly she heard the rustle of leaves and noticed movement: About 40 yards away, three figures looked intently in her direction.

She was frozen in the low grass and shade of the mopane, watching. If she moved now she would be exposed. She waited.

One figure knelt.

She stood to turn away, then heard it – the click of metal.

Nothing but the click.

There was no burning in her flank like before, no drugged awakening – only the sound of the click followed by voices, the voices of her pursuers, and then silence.

She had escaped. She moved once again into thick mopane to sleep the rest of the day. She would sleep all day without being pushed, and then she would hunt. It would be a good day for her.

This story is about one the most memorable hunts I have had. Hunting is not about the kill; it is about the pursuit. I had been given an opportunity to hunt a particularly old lioness that had been part of a lion study project. She was off on her own and had not had cubs for the past two seasons. I was hunting the Venetia Limpopo Nature Reserve with Madubula Safaris in the Limpopo Province of South Africa, and since baiting was prohibited we tracked this particular cat for six days. The “click” was the sound of my double rifle as it misfired at the only good shot that we had during those six days! As I watched her disappear into the brush I could not help but think that it was just not meant to be, and almost a year later I got a call that once again she had had cubs.

My memorable “trophy” is proudly displayed in my trophy room: The bullet that misfired is mounted in a shadow box frame below a picture of one of her tracks in the sand.

Wade is a Texas native who has hunted Alaska, Arizona, New Mexico, Montana and Colorado, plus Africa 12 times, completing the Big Five. As well as being a writer, he believes in teaching his kids to respect the outdoors and wildlife, and that the most important aspect of the hunt is not the kill, but the hunt itself.

The Gift of Africa…Wrapped in a Simple Email

Aug 5, 2017 | News

South Africa: 2014
By Lavon Winkler

The Dark Continent – a mystical land for many, and especially for hunters, young and old. The simple word, “Africa” conjours the magic and mystery embodied in the great writings of Hemingway, Roosevelt, Chapman, and Capstick. This enchanting land has been the catalyst for a plethora of dreams formed and fueled in the hearts and minds of generations.

I recall watching movies set in Africa. There was the 1962 movie, Hatari! (Swahili for “Danger”) starring John Wayne, about a group of professional wildlife catchers. As a child I could hardly wait for Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom on Sunday evening television as Marlin Perkins took us to this land far away and taught us about these amazing animals. For me, this curiosity about Africa rarely waned, and followed me into adult life – Africa was seen as this unique and mysterious land which I desired to someday visit.

As time marched on I wondered if I would ever set foot on that vast continent. Whenever my thoughts strayed to Africa, they’d conclude with, “After all, safari hunting is only for the wealthy, well beyond my financial reach.”

Even so, it was still fun to dream.

Despite the yearning to one day fulfill the dream of Africa, I continued to follow my hunting and fishing passion in North America – the United States, Canada, and Mexico – which are rich with great hunting and fishing opportunities. I truly enjoy the annual pursuit of deer, ducks, geese, rabbits, squirrels, and upland game. But Africa remained neatly tucked away in my sub-conscious as a “maybe, someday” destination. And over the years, while talking with many hunters, I learned that I was not alone in this yearning.

But sometimes, there is that defining moment when an unexpected opportunity arrives and changes one’s life. For me, this happened in 2012 when I met Jim Rice of Cutting Edge Taxidermy in Macon, Missouri.

On opening day of the 2012 firearm season for whitetail deer in Missouri USA, I was fortunate to take a nice buck on my farm. I took the deer to Cutting Edge Taxidermy to see if they would be willing to do a shoulder mount. The shop was swarming with hunters dropping off whitetail deer and an occasional bobcat, but I was warmly greeted by Jim, and without delay he went to work, caping my deer.

As I looked around, I noticed something significantly different about this small community taxidermy studio – there were African mounts everywhere! Beautiful plains-game mounts and spiral horns. Once home, I emailed Jim about a slight change for the mounting instructions for my deer, and casually mentioned I dreamed of someday hunting in Africa. A few hours later I received his reply:

“I am taking three or four guys to Africa in 2014. Why don’t you go with us?”

“When you come to the fork in the road, take it,” Yogi Berra once said. I did just that!

This would be Jim’s sixth safari to Africa, having hunted in Namibia and South Africa. He knew the ropes, had the contacts, and takes great joy in being with hunters when they experience Africa for the first time. Lora, my wife and best friend, agreed to join me in this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

This was the trigger point for an onslaught of emails to Jim asking every question possible about hunting in Africa: gun selection, shot placement, ammunition, field care of the hides and horns, the outfitter, the PH, what we would eat, what to wear, temperatures, weather conditions… He answered my questions in great detail. I thought he was taking me on a hunting trip – but Jim knew he was training a safari hunter. I am amazed Jim didn’t go crazy trying to keep up with my endless curiosity. However, because I have taken many first time fly-in anglers to the remote corners of Ontario, Canada, I appreciated and respected the time Jim invested in me and Eric Krichbaum, the third hunter in our group. Like me, Eric was a rookie safari hunter, and he too, had many questions about our upcoming adventure.

After over a year of planning, preparation, and revising my “hopeful” list of animals many times, in May 2014 we boarded the plane for South Africa.

“I will experience this hunt of a lifetime and my desire for Africa will be satisfied,” I had assured Lora. I had read the articles and books that talked about Africa always calling you to return, but I just thought this was simply folklore for selling books and magazines.

All of our hunting was on three concessions in Northern Limpopo very near the banks of the Limpopo River and Botswana. Our base was Ingala Lodge, and my PH was Manuel van Rooyen with Madala Safaris. There have been many articles written about the magic of a hunter’s first safari to Africa – and rightfully so. It’s an experience beyond description. To see all the animals in their natural habitat is both enlightening and inspiring, although with the population growth, loss of habitat, poaching, and the re-emergence of the safari industry post 1980, it is not the Africa of Hemingway. However, it is still Africa.

Our safari was for seven days, and I hunted with Manuel exclusively since I had a rather long wish list. Jim and Eric hunted together for most of the week, which worked well because they wanted different plains game. I soon learned this hunting approach was different from my other hunting experiences – using the vehicle to spot the animals followed by a spot and stalk approach on foot, instead of sitting in a blind.

On my first day I took a beautiful female Burchell’s zebra and a waterbuck. Around the lapa that evening, the reality of being in South Africa had yet to soak in. Each day was filled with adventure, expectation, exuberance, disappointment, frustration, and celebration – each day filled with awe for this amazing land and its great people.

The hospitality of the outfitter and staff was exceptional. I learned much from Jim and Manuel, and was very impressed with the skinners, while the ability of the native trackers to find, follow, and interpret spoor is something to behold.

After seven days of hunting, seven days of highs and lows, I ended my safari with new friendships, nine animals and a lifetime of memories. Among my animals taken was an eland and, on the last morning, a beautiful kudu. As we were preparing to leave Ingala for our drive to Johannesburg, I knew I had one large problem. Having experienced this magical place, Africa now had a powerful grip on my mind and heart.

I knew I wanted to go back again, and I didn’t know how I was going to break the news to Lora. On the flight, and once home, I still kept thinking, “Africa is calling, and I must return.” When I did tell Lora she smiled, unsurprised, and was completely supportive. I did go in 2015 and hunted a lioness and other plains game (see African Hunting Gazette 21.4 Spring 2016 edition).

To say that Africa has impacted on my life is an understatement. That simple email from Jim Rice and his kind act in inviting me to hunt with him not only fulfilled a lifelong dream – it opened the door for me to see this continent in a way I never dreamed possible. It’s not only the geography and the wide variety of animals to which I am drawn. Most importantly, it’s the people. It’s establishing connections with the outfitters, the PHs, and all of the people that make the safari experience possible. Africa is not just a place. It is not just an experience. It is also a collection of people where a multitude relies upon the hunting industry for its livelihood. As in other parts of this world, in Africa there are many folk who each day struggle to survive. Through subsequent travels with Lora to South Africa and Ethiopia, doors of opportunity have opened for us to join efforts with others who are focused on the plight of orphans in many countries in Africa.

I am planning my next trip to Africa, taking a small group on their first safari. There is something very uplifting about seeing a hunter’s first safari and it would be great to read about it in a future edition of the African Hunting Gazette.

Hunting in Africa is within the affordable reach of many hunters who have assumed otherwise. If you have ever dreamed of hunting in Africa, make a plan and GO! If you have wanted to get even a glimpse of Africa and its amazing geographical and animal diversity, do not wait.

Develop your plan and GO.

Don’t wait for “someday” or “one of these days.”

Go to Africa…now!

Listen closely…Africa is calling…

Lavon Winkler loves the outdoors and the challenges of hunting and fishing for a variety of species mostly in North America. Lavon started hunting at age 10 with his dad and brother. While most of his hunting has been for small game and whitetail deer in the Midwest, he has developed a passion for hunting the broad variety of animal species in South Africa. In two safaris, he achieved the SCI “African 15” Continental Award, and has 10 entries in the SCI Record Book including a Gold Level Sable.

Box

Browning A-Bolt 30-06 – Excellent rating

Ammunition and bullet details and satisfaction rating: Hornady Superformance – GMX 165gr – Excellent Rating

Riflescope details and satisfaction rating: Leupold VX-2 4-12×40 – Excellent Rating

Taxidermist and satisfaction rating (only if you have received your trophies) – Jim Rice, Cutting Edge Taxidermy – Excellent Rating

Roan Antelope, a Twenty-Year Dream

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Burkin Faso: 2015
Roan Antelope, a Twenty-Year Dream
by Kim Stuart

A splay-legged giraffe sipped from the coffee-colored waterhole. A scrappy band of baboons harassed each other in between quick drinks of water. Then, as if choreographed by an African documentary director, a young bull elephant passed beneath our treestand, close enough for us to smell the dusty, earthy, dung aroma. It was the second night of our first African safari…

My wife and I hoped to see a sable antelope come to water, but our only visitor was an antelope I will never forget – one that made an impression that etched into the memory of a novice hunter. A roan bull strutted into the clearing as though the area was his domain. Black and white face, graceful, curving ringed horns, and robust, rust-colored body, he was a vision of the perfect African antelope. There was a tap on my back from our PH. As I slowly turned to acknowledge him, his eyes and subtle headshake told the story as he mouthed, “Don’t you dare shoot, he’s protected.”

The unobtainable is always more desirable. I compare the emotions of that evening to one’s first car or first true love. The indelible impressions were the basis of many other safaris planned over the next 20 years, always with the image of that beautiful roan distinctively framed in the dim light of a Zimbabwean dusk.

Now, almost 20 years to the month from that first safari in Zimbabwe, and a couple of dozen African safaris later, the opportunity to hunt a roan finally became a possibility.

I had read Craig Boddington’s article on Arly Safaris located in Burkina Faso, in which he described the great number of roan available. I was hooked! I began the booking process by calling agent Arjun Reddy of Hunters Networks in Brewster, N.Y. and contacting my hunting buddy Jim Gefroh, to see if he was available for the December 2014 hunt. Fortunately he was! With the help of our very creative travel agent, all was arranged.

Then, in the fall of 2014, the West African Ebola crises hit three countries bordering Burkina Faso – we decided to postpone the hunt until the Ebola epidemic was under control.

Another year went by and the possibility of hunting a roan was on the back burner again!

Finally, December 2015 it was all systems go. We arrived in Ouagadougou and were met by our interpreter Aruna Sourou. We continued for another 12 hours by vehicle to the Arly Safaris camp on 40 thousand hectares in the eastern part of the country, not far from the boarder of Benin.

After a 20-year wait, my anticipation was bursting for the combined hunt for savannah buffalo, kob, hartebeest, reedbuck, warthog, duiker and, of course, roan.

We were the first hunters in camp for the season. The elephant grass was tall because of the late rains, and the only way to increase visibility for ourselves and the hunters to come was to burn the grass at every opportunity. Smoke from the fires obscured the sun with a hazy veil that obliterated a view of a mountain range we didn’t see until three days into the hunt when a strong wind blew the smoke from the valley. Then we started to see game… but no roan.

The first animal taken was a decent sized kob. One shot on the shoulder confirmed my Tikka T3 300 WSM was spot on. The next day our team of PH Ishmail and his brother, our driver and tracker, located a herd of about 50 buffalo. With the females bringing up the rear and a few good shootable bulls near the front of the herd, they were worth pursuing. Guessing where they were headed, we drove in a circuitous route to cut them off. Our tactic worked perfectly. Setting up on the shooting sticks just moments before the lead bull entered a clearing, I took a shot with my Chapuis 9.3x74R single trigger double rifle. The soft round hit the solid object. The buffalo slowed at first, but then took off at full speed directly into the thickest, densest brush around, offering almost zero visibility.

Going in blind was not an option. We crept closer in the vehicle to a tree located near the point the buffalo entered the bush, and sent the tracker up the tree for a look. From the higher branches, he motioned that he could see a dark spot toward the far side of the thicket. We slowly moved the Land Cruiser in that direction.

As we edged closer, the buffalo boiled out of the densest part of the bush and straight for the front of the Land Cruiser. He stopped short, with no daylight between his horns and the grill of the vehicle, whirled, and disappeared back into hiding. This happened in seconds, and neither the PH nor I had the opportunity to shoot – not that we would, as shooting from a vehicle is illegal in most African countries.

The buffalo was slightly more visible now in a less dense part of the thicket. Finally he gave us an opportunity to finish the deadly game. We left the truck and, stalking shoulder to shoulder, Ishmail and I eased closer to the semi-hidden buffalo. As he sensed our closeness and turned for a final confrontation, we fired at the same time, and the old bull slowly dropped. His worn horns, cuts and scars told a story of a tough old creature, a true Dagga Boy.

After a close examination of the buffalo it was obvious that my first shot had passed slightly to the rear of the point of his shoulder as he walked toward me at a quartering angle, enough to the rear to miss all the vitals, exiting the far side about mid-rib high. Reason enough that enabled him to fight so gallantly.

And still, the only roan we saw were on a dead run away from the vehicle, or when they spotted us on foot.

On the afternoon of the fifth day our tracker, nicknamed L’homme aux bons yeux –

“The man with good eyes”, spotted some warthogs rooting along a dry riverbed. With mixed instructions from our PH speaking French to our interpreter, who relayed to me which warthog to shoot, and from buddy Jim standing directly behind me, who realized I was looking at the wrong animal, we finally sorted out which warthog was the correct one. A single shot quickly did the job and, much to the delight of the crew, didn’t destroy front quarter, back-straps, or the hams. We enjoyed a generous portion of the succulent flesh for dinner that evening. The boar was also a long-awaited trophy as in all the previous trips to Africa I had not been fortunate enough to get a decent warthog.

Day Six was much the same: haze, smoke and very few roan sightings. We covered many miles straining our eyes to see any animals at all. Late in the afternoon we had a bit of luck with the wind in our favour, and bumped a small herd of slow-moving roan. Leaving the truck and moving cautiously through the stubby burned grass and sparse leafless trees, we closed to about 170 yards of an unsuspecting bull, standing broadside, at the back of the herd. He was totally unaware of us. Other than a slight buffeting of wind coming from the right, the scenario was a routine, no-problem shot. I eased into my familiar triangle shooting sticks, ones I had practiced with and used successfully dozens of times.

There was no buck fever, no pressure, no hurry. Relying on over fifty years of shooting skills, using a weapon I had been familiar with for years, military experience, forty years of hunting, including the taking of dangerous game with a handgun and black powder rifle, I confidently let out part of a breath, and gently squeezed the trigger… and blew the shot.

Yeah, a clean miss. No excuses, no second guessing, no “what if….” I just blew it!

First, in a state of disbelief, followed by immense disappointment, possibly a twenty-year dream shattered in a second, there was nothing to do but check for spoor. We were diligent in our attempt to find something – anything – that spoke of a wounded roan. Our wonderful tracker, unequaled PH, his brother, our driver, Aruna our interpreter, and Jim and I all tried in vain to find a spot of blood or telltale sign of a wounded animal. We came up empty, and the only conclusion was that I had not wounded the roan, that he flinched at the sound of the shot and not from being hit.

However it was too late in the day to make another stalk even if we did run into a group of roan. A quiet and pensive crew called it a day and headed back to camp.

I owe a great debt to all the guys I hunted with that day. Before, during, and after dinner they joked and kidded me, making light of my missed shot on the roan, and how the next day would provide another opportunity. Secretly I wondered, and that night spent sleepless hours going over my shot and what I had done wrong.

Day seven, the last day of the hunt, we were greeted by the usual amount of smoke and haze. Visibility was compromised, and seeing any game that was not close to the road, was difficult. We cruised for hours hoping for a roan sighting, but with no luck. As our enthusiasm waned and mid-day approached, our tracker pointed excitedly – roan! Sure enough, a small herd of mixed females and males, young and old, drifted off into the sparse brush and trees at a ninety degree angle away from the vehicle. We quietly came to a halt, eased out of the cruiser and tentatively began a stalk toward the last few visible animals.

“The last one on the right is very nice, shoot him on the shoulder, he is at just over seventy yards,” whispered Ishmail excitedly. Easing on to the sticks and trying not to think about the blown shot the day before, I found the point of the shoulder and instinctively squeezed the trigger. A solid, “whump” telegraphed a good hit, and all of the crew let out a sigh of relief. We closed on the downed roan bull, and a final coup ended our hunt for the roan.

I was content. Shooting another animal was pointless.

What had been a twenty-year dream, almost an obsession, at times a fleeting image of a distant memory, finally came to fruition on that smoky afternoon on the Arly Safari concession in Eastern Burkina Faso in the time it took for my bullet to travel a short seventy yards.

Bio

Kim is a member of the African Big Five Hunting Society, Outdoor Writers Association of California, and S.C.I. Muzzleloading Hall of Fame. He has written a number of articles for AHG as well as other hunting magazines. The second edition of “Dangerous Game Animals of Africa, One Man’s Quest” is nearing completion and chronicles the taking of the Magnificent Seven with a handgun, muzzleloader and rifle.

Books may be ordered by contacting Kim at kimbelstuart@yahoo.com

BOX

Jim and I visited a village not far from the camp. The small farming community of about four hundred people contributed full- and part-time labor to the camp’s needs. Women were doing washing at a communal well. The local school consisted of three mud classrooms, and what we saw in them was pathetic.

Apart from a thin, almost totally worn out blackboard and a few scruffy, dog-eared books, there were no teaching aids. In each building were fifty kids of different ages, five to ten years old, most deplorably dressed in torn and ragged T-shirts and filthy shorts. The few “desks” were stacked mud blocks with two to three children crowding around each one. Some kids were just sitting on the dirt floor. Although the teacher in each room was well dressed and seemed dedicated to teaching some basics, the lack of natural light, filthy conditions and zero teaching aids, left us wanting to do something.

Not knowing the situation in advance, we were totally unprepared to do anything significant.

The only immediate help we could offer was a donation of new T-shirts and shorts for each child, which Aruna organised.

I encourage all hunters to go beyond the compounds of their hunting camp, explore the area, visit a village, ask if there are local schools and clinics, and do something, anything, to help. A small gesture from hunters could be something very meaningful to a child or family in rural Africa – or any remote place in the world a hunter might visit.

Jim and I made a commitment to pay the high school tuition for Johnny, a fourteen-year-old boy who helped out in the camp kitchen. He was an exceptionally bright and eager young fellow, and a worthy beneficiary of a simple donation.

Two Thousand Leopards Later

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Mozambique: 2009
Two Thousand Leopards Later…
By Bob Adkins

I’ve “shot” over 2,000 leopards in the recent past, but the one I was presently watching was about to escape. This particular leopard was in Mozambique. Specifically, it was in Simon Rodger’s Safaris de Mozambique Bawa Concession on the southwestern shores of Lake Cahora Bassa.

My friend Jack Hodnik had come over one snowy Alaskan afternoon the previous February and announced, “I inherited some money last fall, and I’m going to use it to take Bob Jensen on an elephant hunt in Mozambique. He’s always wanted to hunt elephant.” (Bob was my next door neighbor and one of Jack’s long-time friends.)

“By the way, you’re invited along to hunt that leopard you’re always talking about. You’ll have to pay for your own transportation over and back, but I’ll pay for everything else. All you have to do is tell me your stories when you get back to camp each night.” What an offer!

Jack, an educator in Alaska’s bush for many years, had retired and moved to Haines after suffering a heart attack and stroke several years ago. His stroke left him unable to get around in the woods, so Bob Jensen and I were to “proxy hunt” for him on this safari. He would ride along and video whatever he could from the vehicles. Bob and I would then recount our experiences as we all sat around the evening campfires.

Bob J. and I both had reservations about this, but Jack eventually convinced us that we would be helping him fulfill his life-long dream of going on an African safari, so we finally accepted.

Everything I read about leopard hunting led me to believe that they have a mysterious and disconcerting effect on people. Hunters that could normally hit running rabbits at 300 yards tend to panic and fire their rifles into the air when leopards are the target. As soon as I realized that this leopard hunt was really going to happen, I decided to practice. And practice. And practice some more!

I burned over a thousand rounds of ammunition on trips to our local rifle range. I pinned two 8” x 10” leopard photos to my den wall, one quartering towards the viewer, and one broadside. A camera tripod served double-duty as a rest for my rifle. Every evening I carefully dry-fired 15 or 20 times at one or the other of my leopard photos.

Mentally coaching myself, I repeated over and over again: “Pick a rosette …hold your breath … s-q-u-e-e-z-e the trigger … follow through …” Over a period of four months, I “shot” over 2,000 leopards, and now the real thing was at hand.

For eight days we had driven slowly up and down the primitive one-lane tracks on Simon Rodgers’s million-acre concession. Some days Jack went with us, and other days he chose to go with Bob J. and his PH, Bryn Jolliffe. Each morning we checked our growing number of baits and then looked for more impala to put up yet another. The truck crawled up and down the steep banks of the myriad dry sandy riverbeds, and over promontories pockmarked with huge rocks and boulders, caves and cliffs. The hilly mopane woodland was ideal leopard habitat. The suspense and anticipation grew stronger day by day. When would a shootable leopard be attracted to our baits?

Every day we’d see lots of other animals, and if we saw a herd of impala or a male warthog or bushbuck, I’d jump out and grab the shooting sticks that Obert, Greg’s head tracker, had waiting, and make a stalk. Often the animals would run, but occasionally curiosity would get the better of one, and my rifle would come up on the shooting sticks, a bullet would speed through he thornbush, mopane scrub and tall grass, and another leopard bait or incidental trophy would be procured. One morning Jack was able to video the entire sequence as I spined a nice 21-inch impala ram.

I kept reminding myself I was in Mozambique, hunting real live flesh and blood leopards. But the first one I’d ever seen had just left the bait and climbed down out of the tree…

We could hear the sound of bones snapping and the occasional grunt and growl even before we got into the blind, so we knew there was a leopard on the bait that morning. We had slowly and quietly crept along the trail to the blind in our stocking feet, guided by PH Greg Michelson’s barely visible toilet paper markers. Reaching the blind in the dark just before six a.m., all we could do was sit and listen as the leopard ate at the impala wired to the underside of a tree branch.

We had sat in this blind the previous evening until full dark, hearing baboons curse, guinea fowl chatter and flush, hornbills squawk, and vervet monkeys scream in the distance – but no leopard appeared. While checking our baits the previous morning, the eighth day of our hunt, we found that a large male and female had discovered the bait and eaten nearly all of it. We replenished the bait with another impala, my ninth, and built a blind. Then we waited and waited, but the leopards didn’t show. (Meanwhile, Jack had decided to go with Bob J. and Bryn – he was concerned that he might spook the leopard while trying to sneak into the blind with us in the darkness.)

At 6.15 a.m. there was just a hint of light in the eastern sky. From 80 yards, the distance from our blind to the bait, we could barely make out the outline of the bait tree in the gloom of the predawn morning. As binoculars and riflescope details slowly became clearer, we saw that the leopard was leaving the bait and slowly making its way down the tree before we could identify its gender. Only males are legal game in Mozambique.

I was bitterly disappointed, but Greg motioned me to sit down and remain quiet. We sat there dejectedly for several minutes when, suddenly, we heard the unmistakable sounds of a leopard feeding again. As we cautiously looked, I could see a leopard back on the bait, but couldn’t positively identify its gender. It fed for several minutes, changing positions occasionally. As it turned broadside, we saw it was a male.

“Shoot the bastard,” whispered Greg. All my practice paid off. The crosshairs came to rest on a prominent dark rosette behind the leopard’s right shoulder. Half a breath … hold it … and the .300 Winchester magnum went off almost by itself. I’d practiced the same scenario hundreds of times. As Yogi Berra would say – it was déjà vu all over again.

I lost sight of the leopard during recoil, but seconds after the shot we heard a thud, followed by a low grunt. Then … silence.

“How did your sight picture look?” Greg whispered.

“Perfect!” I responded.

“Well,” said Greg, “he ran off! I’ll get the truck and my shotgun, and we’ll go dig him out of the brush. And you stay in the blind.”

I replayed the scene over and over in my mind. Everything had looked flawless, but I still spent the next 30 minutes worried sick that I had wounded this beautiful, but very dangerous, animal, and now we were going to have to go after him.

Greg drove down a little side trail to within 100 yards of the bait tree. I heard the vehicle grinding closer and closer and then stopping. I heard Greg load his shotgun and cautiously start through the brush towards the tree. Then a pause.

“Bob, he’s right here under the tree,” he shouted. “He’s dead! Way to go, buddy.”

A tidal wave of relief and euphoria swept over me. The trackers were ecstatic, and Greg was as pleased as he could be. Greg and his crew had done a first-class job of putting me in position to take the leopard I’d dreamed of for over fifteen years. They had all worked really hard for eight full days, and then allowed me to pull the trigger.

My leopard had died instantly and fell out of the tree into the dry sandy riverbed. There was no sign that he’d even twitched after he hit the ground. We would have exciting stories for Jack around the campfire tonight!

As we waited for the sun to come up enough to take pictures, Greg radioed Bryn, Bob J’s PH, with the news of our successful leopard hunt.

At the same time Bryn told Greg that Bob J. had just shot an elephant, and that Jack had been able to see it all. They had caught a small herd ravaging a village maize field.

“We took the herd’s leader – still had corn on its breath,” he said.

However, that’s a story for another campfire.

Bob Adkins moved from Michigan to Alaska in 1964 and spent 32 years in public education. He has degrees in engineering, math and physics, counseling, and school administration. He has spent 14 summers as captain of his own commercial fishing boat, and 12 summers as a commercial bush/air taxi pilot in southeast Alaska. He is married and has two adult daughters.

He is a self-taught photographer, and since retiring from education in 1996 has photographed extensively in Alaska, the Yukon, the Pacific Northwest, England, Europe, and southern Africa. His photos and articles have appeared in numerous magazines, calendars, books, CD covers, and news journals from coast to coast and in Europe.

Burkina Buffalo Magic

Aug 5, 2017 | News

Burkina Faso: 2017
Burkina Buffalo Magic
By Glaeser Conradie from African Echo Safaris
The sun was not out yet, but there was just enough light to notice the small herd of buffalo moving slowly across the broken savannah about 500 metres to our right. The Sahara winds crossing over from Mali in the north created a misty sky that contributed to the magic of entering the unknown.

The driver, unaware of the buffalo, continued driving. Everyone on the back was as silent as the night. Buffalo don’t seem to mind the Land Cruiser’s distant diesel engine rumbling, but any human voices will travel crisply through the early morning air and surely alert them. About 700 metres further, the tracker tapped on the cabin roof of the Cruiser. The wind was perfect. We couldn’t mess this up. Although everybody had had a good night’s rest, we had walked about 18 km the first day, following two bachelor herds. The West African sun is merciless and the dry air sucks up all the moisture in your body. At least that’s how it feels.

The sun was barely showing its glancing rays over the baobab-covered horizon, and the early morning air was still cool. Everybody was on high alert. Things happened fast. Within literally a few seconds, everyone was walking in single file on the way to break the line of the approaching buffalo. Christian Jensen was close behind me with his Steyr Mannlicher .375 H&H Magnum. Christian and his lovely wife Vivi, followed perfectly in line. I never needed to correct their positions while stalking – and for good reason, which I was only to find out at the end of the hunt. We didn’t have to walk too far in order to be in perfect position. With Christian on the home-made shooting sticks, he was ready – safety off. The herd slowly moved past us about 50 metres away – females, a few calves and a young male. As we got off the vehicle and quickly glassed them, I was sure I saw a bigger body within the herd. Then he appeared at the back of the herd, walking behind a large female.
“The one at the back?” I heard Christian whisper.
“Yes, take him when he’s clear.” The female got ahead and the shot went off.
“Reload, safety on and stay right behind me,” I said while taking the shooting sticks. We saw the dust dancing around in the misty dawn air as the big old bull stumbled and fell. Although it was a well-placed shot, the buffalo was not yet dead. Christian shot again, and the Norma African PH 300-grain bullet did a perfect job.
Christian, not a man of too many words, was overjoyed, and the setting was perfect for the trophy photos. The sincere joy among the whole team in such a beautiful environment, after such an exciting hunt reminded me once more why I’m so extremely fortunate to do what I do for a living!

With hunting in West Africa, especially Burkina Faso, the animal is seldom quartered in the bush. It is first dragged by the Cruiser to the closest suitable tree, pulled up a few metres from the ground over a thick branch, then is lowered into the vehicle below. Most clients want a shoulder mount, so we try and keep the buffalo on its belly while dragging, with the shoulders off the ground. So if you ever come to hunt buffalo in Burkina Faso, try and shoot it close to a big tree. 

We took the buffalo back to camp and had brunch and short rest before returning to the concession. Each member of the team enjoys a coke or beer – the clients, driver, trackers, game scout and me. Sharing hunting moments with the whole team is very much part of the West African hunting tradition. And it’s not just a beer and saying “Thank you.” The locals are extremely happy for the client, and relive the hunt relive the hunt in Móorè, their local language. Although French is the most commonly spoken language in Burkina Faso, in the rural areas the local dialect is generally used.

Talking about traditions – West Africa is full of them! With buffalo and especially lion hunting, sacrifices (mostly chickens or goats), strange rituals and prayers are very common. Early morning the vehicle will suddenly stop at the beginning of the concession. I then indicate to the clients to keep quiet, although they are desperate to know why.
“What is going on?!” Then they see the trackers making four small fires a few metres away from the hunting vehicle, facing each wind direction. Oually, the head tracker, will sometimes ask for the client’s rifle and slowly move it through the smoke. Oually normally leads these ceremonies. Regarding religion, Burkina Faso consists mostly of Catholics and Muslims, but most of the people are animists. Often chicken or goat meat will be placed in trees as an offer to nature. This is all part of the experience. Hunting in Burkina Faso is far more than just a hunt!

Even the drive from Ouagadougou to the concession, about 280 km southeast of the capital, is an experience. Depending on the state of the roads, the drive can vary between five to seven hours. Photo opportunities are plentiful. Public transport takes on a whole new dimension. Often you will see motorbikes with pigs tied onto the back, taxis with scooters and livestock (from goats to cattle) on the roof, as well as buses transporting literally anything from people to donkeys. An American or European traffic officer would have an immediate nervous breakdown!

Anyway, back to the hunt.
Next up was Vivi using the same rifle as her husband and looking for the same trophy as well. We spent the next few days leaving camp after a 04h30 breakfast, following buffalo herds varying from large ones of over a hundred to smaller bachelor herds. The best scenario would be to find a lone old Dagga bull and track him down. Some days we covered up to 20 km and drank up to five litres of water a day. I always advise clients to bring some electrolytes to help supplement lost minerals and salts. It helps a lot to boost energy, especially after a long walk.

Normally around 11h30 it becomes hot, and we relax in the shade close by the Wamou River. Lunchtime while hunting in Burkina Faso is a different experience from other concessions in Africa. You realize that lunch is drawing near when the trackers’ attention turns from buffalo to guinea fowl. I tell the clients that shotguns might be fired from the back of the Cruiser, from approximately 11h00 onwards. Some clients are quite shocked when they realize that they are not the only hunters there, but they get to realize that it is part of the deal in this neck of the woods. The trackers prepare the guinea fowls on a small fire while our packed lunch is served. After we have enjoyed canned sardines, cold pasta salad, bread and boiled eggs, the trackers will offer some of their precious game bird meat. Dressed with olive oil, salt and pepper and served on fresh green leaves, it’s really good! Not to mention the ice-cold beer and soft drinks in the cooler box, with fresh fruit for dessert.
Our afternoon naps are often disturbed by hippos snorting nearby in the river, and the ever-present group of vultures that surround us looking for food.

As we left the camp on the last day everybody on the Cruiser knew that it was now or never. We found fresh tracks just before sunrise and followed hard and fast. The sun was just about to rise when the tracker in front of me whispered, “Lions.” Great was our surprise when we realized that we and the lions were both stalking the same herd of buffalo! We could hear them roaring in frustration as they trotted off.

About 45 minutes later the herd of buffalo started to feed, moving very slowly. This gave us time to set up and get Vivi into a shooting position. There were two good-sized bulls. One was slightly reddish, and the other, a bigger black bull was behind a bush far to the left of the herd. He was about 70 metres away – we couldn’t get any closer. As soon as he appeared, the shot went off. I didn’t see any reaction from the bull or hear any thud sound of the bullet impact.

The herd ran off – as well as Vivi’s bull. Vivi is a very good shot, so something was wrong. She assured me that it was a steady shot. We followed up immediately and spent the next 30 minutes looking for blood. We found nothing. Then the game scout pointed out a small tree that Vivi had hit – about 50 cm behind the buffalo. Everybody was a bit disappointed, Vivi most of all.

We decided to sight the rifle again, have an early lunch and hunt right through the day. It was the last day after all. Sure enough, the rifle was way out. How this happened, we don’t know. After quickly bore-sighting the rifle, Vivi put a few perfect shots in a target at 50 metres. No time to over-analyze the situation; we had to get a buffalo.

Roughly 20 minutes after leaving our early picnic spot, we saw a herd of Dagga bulls a good 200 metres away. The wind was right and they were staring at us through some tall grass. We remained motionless for them to calm down and let get off the truck. After about 20 minutes following their tracks, the tracker indicated that they had joined a bigger herd of buffalo. Not the perfect situation, but we continued for another hour and a half. Again the herd slowed down to feed. This was around 16h30. We didn’t have much time left. We found an old bull more or less in the middle of the spread-out herd of buffalo. This time the distance was about 90 meters and again we probably would have given our presence away by stalking any closer. We put Vivi on the sticks, and I took a few seconds explaining exactly which buffalo to take. Just as the shot went off, it moved.

Missed again! Everybody was quiet. I felt sorry for Vivi. We were hunting so hard together as a team and everyone felt her disappointment. As I put my hand on her shoulder for some reassurance, the tracker pulled me by the arm pointing at the herd of buffalo slowing down. A few hundred metres on, they had started to walk. They probably didn’t see, hear or smell us, and were getting relaxed before sunset. I told Vivi to reload and put the safety on. She was more than ready to oblige! We followed as quickly as possible until we spotted the herd moving slowly through some broken bush. This time they were all mixed up and it was extremely difficult to identify an older bull. They were constantly moving – although slowly – and it was not easy to identify one and take a shot. The herd was about 50 metres away. The time was 17h20 – very close to our cut-off time. As Burkina Faso is not too far north of the equator, dusk turns to night very quickly.

We put Vivi on the sticks. Suddenly the game scout vigorously started pointing at a buffalo roughly in the middle of the herd. “It’s an old bull,” one whispered. How these guys can identify the animals without binoculars, I don’t know. We confirmed exactly which buffalo to take. This was it. The shot went off and the buffalo went down on the spot. I immediately told Vivi to reload and stay right behind me while approaching the fallen animal. Experience tells that when a buffalo goes down, it definitely does not mean that he is not still extremely dangerous, let alone dead. After making sure that everything was safe and the job was well done, we let go.

Vivi was in heaven! And so was her husband. I turned to Vivi and gave her a solid kiss on the cheek. “You have your buffalo,” I said. High-fives and congratulations were going around while the hero of the day, the game scout, went off to call the driver.
“One of the best hunts of my life,” Vivi said while we were positioning the buffalo for photos. The light was fading fast and we worked quickly.

It was then that Christian and Vivi told me they are both qualified professional hunters as well. Hunting is their passion. A few things started to make sense to me. They were really both very hard-working hunters and I never had to tell them what to do.

On the way back to camp, a good two hours’ drive, everybody was quiet for a while. With a cold one in hand, we needed to relive the perfect end to a safari, from different perspectives, I’m sure, but all with a happy ending.

Burkina Faso provides some of the best hunting in Africa and combined with the friendly people of this West African country, makes for a unique hunting experience. The accommodation is modest and basic (with air-conditioning and daily laundry service). The food is reasonable to good but nothing beats the hunting!

Burkina Faso is a brilliant example of the direct influence hunting has on conservation. As in many other African countries, most of the wildlife unfortunately is only to be found in the hunting blocks. These are normally the only areas regularly patrolled against poaching. There are a few national parks but in most cases a lack of funds results in inadequate anti-poaching efforts.

African Echo Safaris have been hunting this 260 000 ha concession in the Eastern Province of Burkina Faso for seven years. The concession is for real hunters – it’s open, it’s challenging, and definitely mystical!

Professional Hunter and Hunting Outfitter, Glaeser Conradie, a member of SCI, PHASA and ACP (Confirmé), is a qualified and licensed dangerous-game hunter and experienced field guide. African Echo Safaris operates in Burkina Faso, Mozambique, South Africa and Zambia.

BOX

On a good day we easily see elephant, hippo, crocodile, buffalo, roan antelope, western hartebeest, sing-sing waterbuck, Nigerian bohor reedbuck and western kob. At least once or twice a week we can run into lion. The harnessed bushbuck is a bit shy, but we regularly take beautiful trophies.
BOX:
The best months for hunting are between January and April. January to March is still reasonable temperaturewise, but the last part of March can get quite hot (40 degrees plus). March and April are good for lion hunting with April getting very hot! The reason is that there are fewer lagoons and waterholes available, which makes it a bit easier to find the lions. Unlike other areas in Africa, baiting for lion is not allowed. We have to track them down. This really offers extremely good hunting!

Burkina “Fiasco” Safari

Aug 5, 2017 | News

The Sum of the Parts.

Aug 5, 2017 | News

The Sum of the Parts.
By Zig Mackintosh

According to the anti-hunting lobby, hunters do nothing for wildlife conservation. Even when irrefutable proof that controlled, sustainable hunting is an effective conservation tool is shoved under their noses, it’s dismissed as “fake news”. It is no secret that the animal rights’ agenda is to make as much money as possible out of unsuspecting donors through demonizing hunters and hunting. They will never admit that hunters can be conservationists. There is no point in trying to change the minds of these people, but we do need to make our case to the general public.

The objective of the “Custodians of Wilderness” video series is to document the anti-poaching operations and community work of select hunting outfitters across Africa. To date four episodes have been completed.

The Tanzanian episode relates the daily trials and tribulations of four outfitters who operate in different areas of the country. Their government firmly believes in the sustainable use of natural resources and has categorized wildlife areas according to how they are utilized. If wildlife cannot be sustainably utilized in these areas, the cattle herders and farmers will move in and the game will disappear. This has already happened in areas where safari operators have had to pull out, and 60 700 sq. kilometers of wilderness has been lost in this way.

The Dande Anti-Poaching Unit, DAPU, was set up by Charlton McCallum Safaris in the Dande Safari area in the Zambezi Valley of Zimbabwe. This is a strategic conservation area because it forms a vital corridor between the Zimbabwean National Parks controlled areas to the west and Mozambique to the east. With a limited budget this anti-poaching unit has had tremendous success, but the viability of safari hunting has been seriously compromised by the US Fish and Wildlife Service ban on the importation of elephant and lion trophies into the USA.

Jason Roussos is a native fourth-generation Ethiopian and co-owner of Ethiopian Rift Valley Safaris. He is a professional hunter, but also has a degree in wildlife biology. He has spent his whole life in the Ethiopian wilderness and has a deep understanding of the land and its people. In “Custodians of Wilderness: Ethiopia” Jason explains the link between safari hunting, mountain nyala, and the preservation of the Afro-montane woodland of central Ethiopia.

During Mozambique’s protracted civil war, the security situation made safari hunting impossible. Anarchy reigned as wildlife across the country was decimated. The Zambezi delta became a butchery to feed the troops on both sides of the war. The local bush meat trade thrived. Buffalo populations that were estimated to be in the region of 45 000 fell to around 1 200; waterbuck numbers shrank from 100 000 to 2 500. Species such as sable, hartebeest, eland, nyala and zebra were just about wiped out. In 1992 Mark Haldane and Zambeze Delta Safaris took over Coutada 11 and set about rehabilitating the area. The company’s anti-poaching and community work has proved a tremendous success, and today the buffalo population in the whole of the Zambezi Delta region has increased to around 20 000. Sable numbers are now up to 6 000 from a low of 44. It is now one of the greatest concentration of the species in Africa today. Waterbuck, zebra, hartebeest and other smaller game species have also dramatically increased in numbers. But it is the capacity to generate money through safari hunting that enables Zambeze Delta Safaris to invest in the area. If the company is not able to turn a profit, there is no incentive to be there at all. There is a real and present danger that foreign laws such as those enforced by the US Fish and Wildlife Service will be the single factor that puts the company out of business, thus ensuring that the area is turned back into a desolate wasteland.

The “Custodians of Wilderness” series is focusing on the higher profile hunting outfitters to clearly illustrate what is happening on the ground. But there are numerous hunting companies across Africa whose work goes unheralded. These are the guys who may not have same resources as the bigger companies, but who understand that anti-poaching and community work is critical to the survival of their areas and the wildlife within. These outfitters are more vulnerable than the bigger companies to the machinations of foreign organizations such as the US Fish and Wildlife Service.

Safari hunting companies, big or small, that undertake anti-poaching and community work need to be supported. So next time you are considering an African hunting safari, keep that in mind.

An Arrow, a Bow, and a Nyala Bull

Aug 5, 2017 | News

South Africa: 2016
An Arrow, a Bow, and a Nyala Bull
by Frank Berbuir

It is August 2016, and the South African wintertime, but the sun is shining warm and bright this morning when we pack our stuff in the bakkie, getting ready to head northwards to the impressive hunting grounds in the fascinating Limpopo Province.

I had returned again to beautiful South Africa to meet my friend and professional hunter Izak Vos from Vos Safaris, to hunt again with bow and arrow. On this safari, my most sought-after species was the common nyala bull – that graceful and beautiful middle-sized antelope, like a cross between a bushbuck and a kudu. Two days before, in a different location of Limpopo, we were very lucky to get a magnificent sable which was also on the bucket list. Now we wanted to go for a nyala bull.

I remember quite well my first encounter with a common nyala a couple of years ago. During our stalk on buffalo we suddenly spotted this gorgeous wildsbokke (antelope in Afrikaans). They are shy and wary animals. Nyala are native to southern Africa, including Malawi, Mozambique, Swaziland, and Zimbabwe. It has been introduced to Botswana and Namibia, and reintroduced to Swaziland, where it had been extinct. Nyala (Tragelaphus angasii) is the Swahili name for this handsome antelope. It is also called inyala in Zulu, or njala in Afrikaans. A male nyala is dark brown or slate grey, often tinged with white vertical stripes, a ridge of tufted hair running all along the spine, yellow-stockinged legs, and a white chevron mark between the eyes. They are most easily recognized by their distinctive spiral horns.

Because they are active mainly in the early morning and late afternoon, the first day of our hunt started at sunrise, scouting the area to find sign of nyala. The spoor is similar to that of the bushbuck, but larger. We spotted some nice kudu, blesbok and warthogs, as well as Cape buffalo, giraffe and … nyala! We tried our luck with several stalking attempts, but were unsuccessful because the bush was very dense, and each time we came in close range, one animal in an alert group sensed or spotted us, sniffed or barked, and they all bounded off. But to compensate for all our efforts, we had an excellent braai of tasty homemade blesbok burgers in our lunch break in the bush. After a short nap we continued looking for nyala, but could not get sufficiently close to them, and we drove back to camp in the glow of a stunning sunset.

The next two days were pretty much the same – spotting, stalking, detected by the animals – that´s hunting. So we decided to try our luck in a blind at a waterhole the next day, so early in the morning we sat in a nicely constructed pit blind near a waterhole waiting for what the day would bring. After we had fixed our stuff and I had drawn my bow to familiarize myself with several different shooting positions, we sat stock-still, quite chilly in the mid-August early morning. However, the rising sun warmed the awakening African bush (including us in the blind!), as I listened to all the chirps, tweets and singing of the birds.

A couple of small warthogs came, followed by vervet monkeys. Later some nyala females with young trotted to the waterhole to drink. A handsome bushbuck showed up and stood perfectly at 25 yards, and behind our blind we could also hear a giraffe feeding on leaves from the treetops. All very exciting, and then things quietened down. At about three o’clock in the afternoon a nyala female approached the waterhole, but no bulls, and nothing else happened. After sunset around the campfire that night, with excellent sable schnitzel (escalopes) and some smooth Castle Lager, we decided to stalk again the next morning.

Shortly after sunrise we were at the place where we last saw the nyala.

We spotted. We walked.

We spotted, we walked.

Finally, in the afternoon at about three o´clock it seemed that our hunting luck was turning when we found fresh tracks, scat, and saw with the binoculars a small group of three nyala. They were two females and a nice bull standing in the shadow of an acacia tree. An impressive bull – and I felt the adrenalin rush just by observing him.

“That´s a big bull – let´s go for him,” Izak murmured.

Slowly but surely we stalked our way towards them, which took us about one and a half hours. As we got closer to them, the tension rose as we focused on them. The cows and bull were standing relaxed beneath the tree. One female was left of the tree, the other was behind the bull on the right side. We were hiding behind a thicket observing them through the bush. Izak gave me a sign to get ready.

“Look at the bull. It is a monster.” For a shot I had to move one step aside to have a clear shooting lane. The arrow with the Silverflame XL broadhead nocked in quietly and lay on the rest. Silently I engaged my release to the loop on the string and simultaneously pulled my bow to full draw.

“Thirty-two yards broadside,” Izak whispered. “Shoot when the female is not standing behind him.” I was at full draw when I moved one step to the right beside the thicket, aiming at the bull’s chest. For about 20 seconds I stood like that, and luckily they were still unaware of me. When the female behind the bull stepped forward, she cleared the way for a clean shot so I would not shoot her as well, in case of a pass through. By slightly pushing the release trigger, the carbon arrow took flight on its mission and penetrated fully through the vital area of the animal. The nyala bull flinched before he jumped to the right, and sprinted forward with both females following him in his tracks. We were both quiet, following the crashing sounds he made through the bush before there was silence.

Izak raised his thumb to indicate a good shot. I felt that the shot placement was good, and was a bit giddy with excitement. Izak tapped me on the shoulder, smiled and winked.

“Let´s give him a bit of time before we look for him.” We waited a half-hour, then went to the spot where had I shot him, and found the arrow about ten yards behind full of blood. We could follow clearly his tracks and blood trail. After about 60 yards we saw him dead, lying under an acacia tree – our magnificent and beautiful nyala bull. It was another long sought-after bowhunting dream came true. Once more, together with Izak, I was overwhelmed and more than happy about this awesome experience and result.

We took our time to honour the moment and animal, along with admiring the trophy. After some good, respectful pictures, we radioed the landowner to collect us and load the animal on the back of the pick-up. Back in camp we all enjoyed an ice-cold beer and celebrated this wonderful hunting adventure. The slaughtering brought 60 kilogram (132 pounds) of first-class nyala venison.

In the end, good things come to those who wait, and our patience paid off with a splendid nyala bull.

What an exciting safari again. Once more thank you very much to Izak for this outstanding experience, his company and organization. Combined with the extraordinary performance of bow and arrow, this was an event of a lifetime.

Shoot straight, always good hunting, “Waidmannsheil” and “alles van die beste”.

Frank

BOX:

Equipment:

Bow: Mathews Z7x @ 70 lbs

Arrow: Carbon Express Maxima Hunter 350

Broadhead: Silverflame XL 2-Blade @ 125 grain

Optics: Zeiss Victory Binocular & Nikon Rangefinder

Release: Scott

Camo: Sniper Africa

German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting, which he has practised for more than 17 years. Although he’s bowhunted in several countries, he’s become addicted to hunting in Africa since his first safari in 2004. Frank is a mechanical engineer and risk manager in the automotive industry.

Captions:

Pictures:

• Happy author and PH with a magnificent nyala.
• Dense South African bush.
• Beautiful Limpopo countryside.
• Our hunting area.
• The stalking grounds.
• 60 kilogram (132 pounds) of fine nyala venison.
• A relaxing break.
• A special encounter with giraffe.
• A tasty blesbok burger!

Mbogo and the greeks

Aug 5, 2017 | News

One for the Road, AHG 23.1
Wieland

It’s tempting to change the names in this piece to protect the guilty, but instead we’ll just go with Christian names and let the reader speculate. It all happened a long time ago — almost a quarter century — and those involved are dead for all I know.

There’s an old saying in America: “As serious as a heart attack,” and hunting Cape buffalo is every bit as serious. Sometimes, though, it’s a comedy of errors you look back on with sheer gratitude that you survived.

We were hunting buffalo on Mount Longido, near the Rift, got a good bull high on the mountain in a hair-raising escapade, and returned to our home base, which was a large flower and ostrich farm outside Arusha. A Texan named Jerry owned the farm with a consortium of friends, and was starting a safari company as well. He’d hired a couple of Rhodesian professional hunters to run it. I’d killed my bull up on the mountain with one of them, and now I was going buffalo hunting again, down near Tarangiri, with the other, a grizzled PH named Gordon.

Jerry and Gordon detested each other. Gordon, being a licenced professional of long experience, felt he should be in charge. Jerry, as the owner of the company, disagreed. He treated Gordon little better than a manservant, and this did not sit well with a guy who’d fought through the bush war in Rhodesia, and had been a PH for years before Jerry ever set foot in Africa. Gordon was also whipcord lean the way professional hunters were in the days when they walked almost everywhere, with sun-creased eyes that had seen too much, and Jerry’s well-fed Texan ways did not sit well.

Our trip down to Tarangiri encountered endless delays involving special licences, so one evening, with no prospect of hunting on the morrow, Gordon and I headed into Arusha for a good, old-fashioned pub crawl. We drank our way from saloon to saloon, down one side of the main drag and up the other, and around two in the morning found ourselves at the old Greek Club on the edge of town. That’s where everyone ended up when the other pubs closed.

Gordon said he was too unsteady to drive and assigned me the wheel, even though I had no idea how to get home and was just as unsteady as he was. But off we weaved. Every so often I’d shake him awake and ask which way to go. He’d point a finger and nod off again. Somehow, we reached the farm in the dead of night, and there we found Jerry, madder than hell, waiting up for us and brandishing a sheaf of licences.

“We’re going hunting,” he snarled. “We have to leave in an hour!”

An hour! Gordon staggered off for a nap, but I figured, with some convoluted logic, that if I was going to die, I wanted to die clean. I had a bath, then passed out on the bed for 15 minutes before being shaken awake with the beginnings of a hangover such as only over-strength East African beer, combined with gin, can inflict.

Jerry was still tight-lipped angry as he assured us the truck was loaded and ready to go, and off we went with Gordon at the wheel. How on earth he could drive, I’ve never figured out. In about an hour and half we got there, pulled off the tarmac and headed cross country toward the park boundary. We were going to hunt the edges, in the area that inspired Hemingway’s title Green Hills of Africa. Green they were, too, and extraordinarily beautiful in the early dawn. It was a good day to die, and I was rather looking forward to it. My hangover increased as we drove, doubling and redoubling every hour.

As we climbed out, we made two unwelcome discoveries. One, Jerry the Mastermind had forgotten to pack any water, and Gordon and I were both suffering a hangover thirst like I had never experienced before. And never since, as a matter of fact. Jerry, of course, blamed Gordon who “should have checked” the water supply.

The second discovery was that Gordon had neglected to bring his rifle, so off we went to hunt mbogo with a PH armed only with his little bag of ashes to check the wind direction.

“Don’t worry,” Jerry muttered, “he probably couldn’t hit anything anyway.” That was reassuring.

Traversing a sort of plateau, we spotted a half dozen bulls in the distance, and Gordon and I dropped onto our stomachs to crawl forward to a deadfall. Gordon was making the usual signs to keep quiet, keep down, stay out of sight. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the bulls thundered away. We looked behind, and there was Jerry, strolling along, making no effort at stealth. If Gordon said something, he was going to do the opposite. Crawl? No way. From that moment, the two did not exchange a word the rest of the day.

We continued through the green hills, the day warming steadily, and thirst became all-consuming. We spotted all kinds of buffalo sign, and soon found ourselves flushing them like grouse — generally getting fleeting glimpses, at a distance. The grass was high, there was no way to stalk them, and taking random shots at departing bulls is not something your insurance company would approve.

At one point, though, as a big bull jumped to his feet and paused, Jerry shouted “Shoot! Shoot!” and like a fool, I did. He stumbled, disappeared into an overgrown donga, and reappeared a few minutes later on the far hillside, making tracks. I was about to take another crack at him — slim chance though it was — when Jerry grabbed the rifle out of my hands and started fumbling to put the scope back on, which he had insisted on removing earlier. Meanwhile, the bull disappeared.

Then began a memorable day of following the track of the wounded bull, mile after mile under the hot sun. Gordon concluded he was not badly hurt, and had probably suffered a hit in the foot. Don’t ask me, I have no explanation. But it allowed us to pick out his track from others we came across. And on we went, as my all-devouring thirst reached epic proportions and I began to hallucinate about icy mountain streams.

At midday, we stopped to rest in a dry riverbed, and Gordon began scooping a hole in the sand, hoping to reach water. About a foot down the sand became moist, and soon there was a yellowish liquid seeping in, forming a frothy pool in the bottom. From somewhere he produced a cup and an old handkerchief. Placing the cloth over the cup, he lowered it into the yellow muck, allowing the handkerchief to filter the water as it dribbled in. He handed me the cup with a flourish.

“Warthog and buffalo piss, mostly,” he said gallantly, “But it should help.”

I managed to gag down about three mouthfuls while trying to imagine bubbling brooks or bottles of Perrier. As he predicted, my thirst magically disappeared — for a minute, at least. I then went off into the bushes. When I reappeared, Gordon leapt to his feet, pulled a knife and came for me. Thinking thirst had driven him mad, I was looking for my rifle when he dropped to his knees and starting frantically scraping my pant legs with the blade.

“Pepper ticks,” he said. “You’re covered with them! God, what did you get into?” I looked down and sure enough, my khaki pants looked like a well-peppered potato. Ticks! Ugh!

And that, dear readers, right there, was the highlight of the day. The peak. The summit. We choked down a few more mouthfuls of the alleged water, resumed the trek, and trailed after the buffalo for a few miles until he crossed into the park, at which point we turned back for the truck. It was between five miles and ten miles away, Gordon estimated. It may have been less. It felt like more.

The slow, lurching drive back to the tarmac took an eon. The Greeks took Troy. Rome fell. Columbus discovered America. Time crept by on thirst-tortured, trudging feet. Finally, the pavement. We hit 50 miles an hour.

“How long to a ducca?” I asked.

“Half an hour,” Gordon replied. “Got any money?”

Well, no, I hadn’t thought to bring any, since we were hunting buffalo and I hadn’t expected to buy one, or leave a tip. In fact, no one in that Toyota had so much as a shilling. We searched the glove box, down behind the seats, all the usual places where coins migrate. Not a sou.

Finally, we reached a roadside duka and pulled over. Gordon looked hungrily at the watch on my wrist, then my Swarovskis on the seat. Without a word, he picked up the binoculars, disappeared inside, and reappeared in a few minutes with an armful of bottles of orange squash and warm beer.

My first bottle disappeared in a mouthful. My second — a warm Tusker, and warm Tusker never tasted so good — was half gone when I stopped slurping long enough to ask.

“Don’t worry, we’ll come back for your binos tomorrow,” Gordon said, and we resumed our long, gulping draughts of frothy, malty, bubbling elixir of the gods.

Finally, Gordon came up for air.

“You know,” he said, “I think tonight I’ll give the Greek Club a miss.”

***