April – June 2017
US Customs CBP Form 4457 UPDATE
After many hours of negotiation and deliberation with the organisations in the USA , mainly Mr John Fraser from the National Rifle Association who tirelessly helped and answered questions , submitted clarifications the Central Firearms Register and Commander of the South African Police Firearm import office at Or Tambo have advised that no matter what information is submitted to the authorities about the non expiry of a US Customs Form 4457 they wish to see a US Customs form stamped by US Customs with a 2017 date on it . This form is used to prove ownership of the firearm. They wish to see this form completed correctly with all the relevant information on it : Firearm Type / Make / Model/ calibre / Serial number on the form .
Please can you take time out and get an updated form that has the a 2017 date on it. I apologise for the inconvenience but to experience a trouble free start to your safari this needs to be done .
At this time it is my understanding that applications that are already submitted for a pre-issued permit will be honoured but applications from now on in must have the 2017 date on the US Customs form 4457 .
If we receive any updates I will be passing them onto the readers .
The updated form CBP Form 4457 is available by clicking here.
Brooke’s Life of the Wife of the PH
Brooke’s Life of the Wife of the PH
A Mission Whose Mission is to Disappear
By Brooke ChilversLubin
In June 1986, in the Central African Republic, I followed PH Rudy Lubin for the first time from the dry season savanna to the rainy season forest.
Now that the elephant-hunting clients were gone forever, after the insanely poached pachyderm was definitively added to country’s list of protected species in 1985, international hunters began coming to the C.A.R.’s forests to pursue elusive species such as western bongo, forest sitatunga, blue and yellow-backed duikers, and even Weyn’s duiker – a species nobody had previously thought about.
Rudy and Les Safaris du Haut Chinko had only just started developing their hunting in the wetlands and forests of south-eastern C.A.R. They’d scouted the wilderness east of the big town of Bakouma, and selected the farthest outskirts of the village of Fodé, close to the Mbari River, to build our first camp.
From Yalinga to Bakouma took us two days in the heavily charged Toyotas, driving muddy tracks in the pouring rain. Offered hospitality and recovery at the Catholic mission, the Congregation of the Holy Spirit, we found the 6-foot 2-inch-tall, movie-star-handsome Dutchman Father Henri; 54-year-old Dutch nurse and midwife Sister Léonie, and a trio of small and aged nuns due to return to the seminary and retire after many years of service.
The horizon was grape-colored with fast-moving clouds, and huge gusts of wind threw mangoes out of the mission’s trees. The pell-mell of children and chickens vanished from the courtyard. Père Henri looked up at the sky, whose rainfall in this isolated, much-overlooked community he’d tracked already for 20 years.
Founded in Brittany, France in 1703 by an aristocrat named Claude Poullard des Places, “to help the poorest of the poor, in the sorriest of places,” in the 19th century, the mission of the Congrégation de Saint-Esprit was to supply Catholic clergy to French colonies, mostly in Africa and especially to communities founded by freed slaves, like the islands of Haiti and Réunion. This suited French colonial interests whose roads, military outposts and coffee plantations had slowly been taking hold in the unforgiving bush, counter-balancing the British influence in Africa once they reached the continent’s heartlands in their exploration of the Nile.
By the turn of the 20th century, on foot and following waterways, the order’s religious adventurers had penetrated the unknown interior of Central Africa. Held back by the outbreak of World War II, a veritable wave of proselytizers went to Africa in the late 1940s where they established centers of Christian teaching, schools and clinics. (In 1920, the congregation finally admitted nuns to also undertake missionary work abroad.) But if 20th century Saint-Esprit missionaries came mostly from France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Ireland, Poland and Canada, already in 1986, of the approximately 600 men and women studying and working in the seminary, 450 were non-Europeans, committed by the order to work in countries not their own.
In the C.A.R., for more than 100 years, the missions of Saint-Esprit have battled slavery, disease, and coups d’état to bring Christianity to the Baya, Banda and Nzakara people. Well into the 1960s, the footpaths in places like Bakouma were unsafe after dark, due to an abundance of prowling leopards and marauding elephants.
As we broke bread, cracked eggs, and drank wine together in the small and stifling refractory, Père Henri explained: “The original purpose of the Saint-Esprit missions was to bring word of a Christian God to the Africa. Yes, to convert the African and rid him of the superstitions they believed could weaken the human spirit. The missionaries were convinced they could genuinely improve the wellbeing of the people, not just by helping them materially or economically, but also by working with the entire, integral person. The idea was not so much to eradicate non-Christian convictions as to liberate the spirit from beliefs – including witchcraft – which could obstruct the individual’s ability to see what we consider to be logical truth.”
The sudden pounding of rain, so typical of June, nearly drowned out his voice as he continued: “I have seen tremendous suffering – real suffering – beatings, torture, prison and killing when a group of people in a village gang up on an individual and accuse him of sorcery.”
Closing all the shutters to keep out the rain, in the growing darkness he recounted a case of a woman condemned by the village prison judicial system to five years of prison for “stealing the heart” out of the body of a well-known athlete, whose apparent good health, he proclaimed, was from getting back his heart. “My response… when asked… is to use Christian arguments to battle those beliefs that do not conform to the principles of logic, and hence of justice. I will explain, for example, that although it is possible for a man to have his heart removed, this can only be done in hospital, and only with very complicated machines, that a man cannot live with no heart at all, much less play soccer.”
For hours, Rudy and I dragged the stories out of him – of the sorcerer who transformed herself into a blackbird, and then circled the hut of a pregnant woman night and day until she miscarried; of “frog-men” who live underwater in the nearby swamp and drag their enemies below the surface to drown them.
Looking back over his two decades in Bakouma, with most of his company coming via his ham radio over which he played chess with someone on a sailboat in Australia, Père Henri felt that Christianity had slowly soaked into the fiber of the community and improved individual lives. “But because these are questions of faith, it is hard to know to what extent things really change in a man’s soul.” Describing traditional beliefs, he explained that the idea of one’s “time being up” or being “called by God” is not widespread. Instead, an “enemy” is identified and accused of causing the illness or death, and thus must make reparations to the family of the injured party. “So I was very happy to hear when a dying woman in my congregation abstained from accusing her ‘enemy’ and instead said, ‘Let God decide who is to be punished.’ Through her belief in divine justice, I can see that we have had some effect.”
I was also anxious to hear the story of Soeur Léonie, a former couturier’s dressmaker: “I came here in order to go as far as I could in helping others and relieving their suffering. And in Bakouma, there have been infinite possibilities!” In addition to actual medical care, the nuns teach young mothers about clean water and nutrition; how to keep a monthly family budget in order to stretch earnings and ease financial worries; about building huts separating domestic animals from the living quarters to improve hygiene, and with windows to provide light and aeration. This strong and capable woman described how village elders often block the advancement of the young. “They can’t build a house that is obviously an improvement over a traditional one, because they will be criticized for being too proud. The influence to keep things the way they are often discourages young people, so they leave the countryside and move to Bangui to get away from the weight of the traditions that oppress them.”
For 20 years she had tried to address the very serious ingrained problems of the women and children of the region’s predominant Nzakara ethnic group, which may be due, she speculated, to a weak family structure resulting from their historical tradition as migratory marauders rather than land-bound cultivators. “I see young children living with nobody, families unprotected by a father, 12-year-old girls being pushed into conjugal relations instead of remaining longer at home to grow physically strong enough for repeated childbearing, women with six children from six different fathers, and life-threatening venereal diseases,” said Soeur Léonie, her voice full of real concern.
Beyond experimenting in generating electricity from the seasonal rivers, Père Henri saw the mission’s role as training local catechists to serve the tiny remote villages scattered along the fan of rough trails that dead-end in the bush near Bakouma. These days, he rarely delivered sermons, preferring to speak to his congregation on an individual basis, for example, while helping someone repair a bicycle tire or a broken radio in his perpetually busy workshop. “The practical reality – and, in fact, the missions’ destiny – is that they can no longer be entirely dependent on Europeans. Step by step, more Africans are taking over the foreign missionaries’ responsibilities, thus assuring that the missions will continue long into the future, albeit in their own way, and perhaps not always exactly as we would wish it,” he said with a resigned smile. “But that is fine too, and probably how it should be.”
Sister Léonie had already started putting the clinic and dispensary in the hands of African health care workers with whom she will maintain daily contact when she is transferred to Bangui. “One day, the community will have to get by entirely on its own. Our job is to help people find the path to self-sufficiency. Otherwise, they will always be economically dependent on countries outside of Africa,” she added, suddenly rising from her desk to finish her chores before the 12-hour equatorial night dropped like a Broadway theatre curtain.
“You see, our mission’s mission is to disappear.”
Brooke ChilversLubin is the wife of French PH Rudy Lubin, who operated in the C.A.R. for over 40 years.
Namibian Blesbok – with bow and arrow
Namibian Blesbok – with bow and arrow
By Frank Berbuir
It was mid-afternoon on a wonderful sunny African day in November when I climbed up the tamboti tree to my tree seat. I watched all the action below – some ostriches strolling to the nearby waterhole, a group of young warthog that dropped by for a sip, as well as enjoying the birds in the branches around me. They seemed curious about the creature sitting there!
But I was not only on Omalanga Safaris in the north of Namibia, not far from the Etosha National Park, to savor the wonderful wildlife. I was on a bowhunting trip, and I was sitting high up there because we had seen from the tracks that many blesbok, Damaliscus dorcas phillipsi, appeared frequently at this waterhole.
So, I relished the sun and surroundings when I suddenly glassed two blesbok stepping out of the bush, heading to the water. They were about 200 metres away, but my blood pressure had already started to rise into a range a physician normally did not recommend.
OK, get ready and stay calm, I thought. They came closer and were approximately 100 metres away from the water when, through the binos, I saw that they were a ram and a really very old and capital doe with long and polished horns.
“Amazing old female and a nice trophy ram,” I whispered to myself, and nocked in the Carbon Express Cx Hunter 300 Advantage arrow with the Silverflame 125-grain two-blade broadhead.
I was sitting nearly five metres above the ground in the tree, the wind blowing in my favor directly out of the direction the two blesbok were coming from. They were not aware of me, and headed side by side to the water. Once they were in a good shooting position it would be up to me to make it a successful story.
They reached the water and started drinking when the female turned away from the ram and stood broadside. That´s your chance, I thought. I drew my 80 lbs Mathews LX bow, sighted in on the vitals, and pulled the tripper on my release. The deadly arrow penetrated through the animal with a smacking noise, and the blesbok went galumphing off. About 50 metres she stopped and collapsed. I was overwhelmed, shivering and awestruck. I was lucky.
It was late in the afternoon and I called my PH Gustav on the radio and climbed down. When he arrived he congratulated me on my fine trophy. We took some nice photos and he said he would take care of the rest, and that I should go back into my tree seat – he guessed that more blesbok would come to the water later.
Highly motivated, I climbed up again for another adventure. Believe it or not, one hour later two fine blesbok rams came to the pan. They galloped to the water as if in a hurry, and stood so close together that no shot was possible.
They drank quickly and turned immediately to leave the waterhole. Fortunately, they trotted very slowly and were now separate.
The sun was low, and a second chance would not come again that day, that was for sure, so I had to make a decision. I’d had a similar situation two years ago with Gustav when we were on a bowhunt and a warthog wanted to leave the waterhole urgently. I remembered that scenario quite well, so I blew a short whistle, hoping to make the blesbok pause. Luckily, they hesitated at 30 metres, slightly quartering away. I had been at full draw for about 10 seconds, aimed at the vitals of the larger buck, when he was stopped by the whistle.
Now or never – I pulled the trigger of my release and the string accelerated the arrow to the 280 fps. A second later the deadly missile smashed through both lungs. He jumped, ran several metres accompanied by the other buck, and disappeared behind a bush. The second blesbok ran on farther, out of sight into the bushes. Everything became dead quiet. About ten seconds later I heard a last bark from the shot buck. Happily for me it seemed that he died only 40 metres away.
The sunlight was more or less gone when I climbed down from my tree seat and, together with Gustav who I had called again by the walkie-talkie, found the ram behind the bush. It was a nice blesbok trophy ram and, as always, we took some nice photos. Back in camp that night, along with a couple of Windhoek Lagers, everybody had to listen several times to my great experiences of that day!
And, as a lifetime memory, the shoulder mounts in my trophy room always let me relive those awesome moments. Thanks to all who made these special moments memorable forever!
Always good hunting – waidmannsheil and alles van die beste.
Frank
BOX
Blesbok can be easily differentiated from other antelopes by their distinctive face and forehead which inspired the name bles, the Afrikaans word for blaze, like that on the forehead of a horse. A horizontal brown strip divides this blaze above the eyes.
Physically, rams and ewes, are remarkably similar, up to 80 kg, with a shoulder height between 85 and 100 cm. Both sexes carry horns averaging about 38 cm and ringed almost to the tip, with female horns being slightly more slender. Blesbok can be found in open veld or plains of southern Africa. They were once one of the most abundant antelope species, but have become scarce since 1893 due to relentless hunting for their skins and meat. They have been protected since the late 19th century and today with their sufficiently numbers,they are not classed as endangered.
Equipment:
Bow: Mathews LX 80 lbs (customized – one of 12 sets available for 80 lbs on the LX).
Sight: HHA Optimizer Sight
Rest: Trophy Ridge Drop Away Rest
Stabilizer: Vibracheck Stabilizer
Quiver: Mathews 5 arrow quiver
Release: Scott Wildcat Release
Arrow: Carbon Express CX Hunter 300 Advantage
Broadheads: Silverflame 125 grain
Optics: Zeiss Victory 10×40 and Leupold RX III Rangefinder
Camo: Sniper Africa
Bio:
German hunter Frank Berbuir is passionate about the outdoors and hunting – especially bowhunting – which he has practiced for more than 16 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 supply chain risk manager in the automotive industry.
- A “Grand Dame” – my very old blesbok doe
- Frank´s fine blesbok ram
- Glassing for game from the tree
- Self-made hunting tree seat
- The beautiful entrance hut of Omalanga Safaris
- Omalanga Safaris – a place to relax and enjoy
- The lapa – the place to meet and relive the experiences of an adventurous African safari day
- Beautiful landscapes of northern Namibia
- Southern Africa´s beauty of nature
- Sunsets are always magnificent
- The shoulder mounts
One For The Road
Back Page Column 22.2
Wieland
August 13, 2016
ONE FOR THE ROAD
THE FOREST, THE TREES, AND MISSING THE BOAT
A couple of years ago, I was part of a group pheasant hunting in North Dakota. As with many of these gatherings, it was an eclectic crowd of writers, cameramen, and industry types. One of the cameramen was a young guy, starting out in the business, and ecstatically happy to be invited anywhere at someone else’s expense.
Much of his time was spent quizzing one of the older writers about his time in Africa. Now, this particular guy had been to Africa a half-dozen times, starting in the mid-1980s. He’d been to Zambia early on, for about a week, and later spent time in Zimbabwe and South Africa. I’ve known him for 20 years, and was interested to eavesdrop during dinner and see how he would present his experiences.
I should add that he’s from the Deep South, pushing 80, and retains some attitudes towards other races that most young people today would find highly questionable, if not downright repugnant. More than that, though, was his eagerness to push his impressions from several -light once-over trips to Africa as being deep insights into the realities of the Dark Continent. In fact, although he’d visited several countries, over about a 25-year period, he had spent no more than eight weeks total on the continent, and then had seen little more than airports and safari camps.
His loud view on Zimbabwe today was that it was, indeed, being mismanaged, but that conditions were not nearly as bad as were being presented. He’d been there, after all, and hadn’t seen any shortages.
Well, naturally not. Hunters being a serious source of very scarce foreign exchange, the authorities in Zimbabwe are anxious they not only be treated with some regard, but shielded from the realities of life in Harare and Bulawayo today. After this particular discourse on modern African history, I asked him for particulars about his last trip. How long? Six days. How much of Harare did you see? Well, none. My PH picked me up at the airport and we were in the bush that afternoon. And after the hunting was over? Straight back to the airport.
Obviously, modern life is different than life was 50 years ago. Travel is faster. Everyone makes a fetish of being constantly busy and unable to afford the time. In 1908, a safari lasted six months to a year; by 1938, it was three months, and in the early 1950s, six weeks was a long time. By then, though, air travel had already cut the time required to get there — and the early safaris were really long, not only because of the slowness of foot – or early motorized safaris, but because, having to spend three weeks or more on ships each way, just getting to and from, it made no sense to spend less time actually in Africa than you spent on the ship.
In his 1967 book on big-game hunting, Jack O’Connor presented his credentials for writing about Africa, and calculated that, from his first safari in Kenya in 1953, he had spent a total of six and a half months in Africa, hunting in East Africa, Angola, and French Equatorial Africa. Six months is a good long time. I calculated my own total, starting from my first trip in 1971, and it added up to almost two years. Granted, these were not all safaris. The first ones were straight journalism — four months in Uganda and the Sudan, three months the following year in Kenya and Uganda, and two months in 1976 in South Africa and Rhodesia. After that, whenever possible, if I was planning a trip to Africa I would build in as much activity as possible into as long a time as possible. I became, to all intents and purposes, a temporary resident of South Africa, Botswana, or wherever.
Looking back on all that time, I find that my most prominent and vivid memories were less the hunting — although some certainly stand out! — than the time I spent living in grass huts, mud huts, in the old Indian quarter of Kampala, with the Masai in the Rift, or among the highway workers paving roads around the Okavango. Two months on a remote farm in the wilds of the Orange Free State might not provide the most pleasant memories, but they are vivid none the less.
This is not to suggest that everyone should have the same experiences I have had. Obviously, that’s not possible. What bothers me, though, in the modern rush to “hunt Africa” is the common desire to get in, shoot as much as possible in as little time as possible, and then get the hell out with a minimum of inconvenience, unpleasantness, or exposure to the actual people who live there.
From his first trip to Africa in 1951 until his death in 1965, Robert Ruark would spend months at a time in Kenya, or on safari in Mozambique, Uganda, or Tanganyika. He developed a genuine love for many of the non-safari, non-hunting aspects of life in Africa, and it shimmers in his writing. Although he was not here as much, and he was always limited to depicting his experiences in magazine articles, O’Connor had much the same attitude. If he had been able to spend months at a time in Africa, I suspect his writing would have shown the same interest and insight as his many stories of hunting in Arizona and Sonora earlier in his life.
Obviously, modern life is not going to get any slower, but we all lead our own lives, and we all shape our own destinies. Some shape them deliberately, others passively allow them to be shaped by others, which amounts to the same thing. You can’t tell me that a man wealthy enough to fly to Africa for a two-week hunting trip cannot afford the time to build in an extra week to visit Stellenbosch and taste the wines, or take a few days in the beginning to visit Spion Kop.
Of course, to do that, you’d need to know about the attractions of sipping Pinotage, or the events that made Spion Kop a byword for military slaughter, only eclipsed, 15 years later, by the Somme. Too many people today make the trips, but the object of the game is not to see or learn anything, merely to show the people at home that they’ve been there, and to check it off their list.
More than any other single factor, it was reading Robert Ruark as a teenager that ignited my deep desire to see Africa and spend time there. As I mentioned, my first three trips in 1971, ’72 and ‘76, which totaled nine months in six countries, I did not hunt a single thing. When I was able to start hunting in Africa, in 1990, the focus became different, but then, so did the publications I was writing for. Still, the hunting was an excuse to go back to Africa; it was not a case of being forced to make the distasteful and inconvenient trip to Africa in order to put a kudu head on the wall.
At dinner on the last night of the trip to North Dakota, with which I began this tale, my Deep-South acquaintance was holding forth yet again, this time on the quaint practices of the Masai. He’d seen some at a distance on a four-day wingshooting trip to Kenya, and found them amusingly naive. Can you imagine, he asked, when they get some money, what do they buy? A cell phone!
Having spent some time among the Masai, it seems to me that a cell phone is a more useful acquisition than, say, a dress suit or an electric kettle. Who are they going to call? he asked, to uproarious laughter. Well, other Masai — like his brother, in his cluster of huts four miles away, who he could not talk to unless he walked over, and even then would have no idea if he was home. Eminently useful, a cell phone.
Sitting there, listening to this, gritting my teeth, I could see where modern writers are largely failing modern readers. In our anxiety to tell about the myriad kudu in this country, or the huge flights of sandgrouse in that one, or where the biggest elephants are found, we have forgotten the passion of seeing something new and exotic, and instilling that same passion in our readers.
Instead of writing about what it was like, we write about how long the horns were, which, when you think of it, hardly matters at all. In an era when technology would allow us to see so much more, we choose to see and feel so much less.
Tuskless Cow
Zimbabwe: 2013
Hunting the Tuskless Cow
By Dawie Bezuidenhout
Elephant hunting has many facets…
Hunting elephant bulls with good ivory is a tough, but rewarding hunt that certainly tests your skills in endurance and perseverance. But the excitement of hunting tuskless cows increases the level of danger and excitement to new heights. It is in my view by far the most dangerous and challenging African hunt you can get, as you often have to consider throwing caution to the winds and go into herds to find a tuskless cow without a dependant calf. That can often provoke a charge.
Tuskless elephant cows are born without tusks – a genetic fault at birth. Not only do they grow up without tusks in a herd where every other elephant has tusks to work with and brag about, it is possible they recognise this deficiency, which helps to make them particularly moody and dangerous. When they mate they can easily produce a tuskless offspring, and local councils in Zimbabwe offer tuskless cows at much cheaper rates.
Apart from other concessions, we hunt the beautiful Gokwe North concession in Zimbabwe, which is a large, unfenced and wild concession, where game roams freely. It borders the Matusadona National Park in the north, the Sanyati River in the east and the Chirisa and Chizarira National Parks in the west. It’s an area where elephant and buffalo herds are predominant.
In 2013, Dr Frik Botha booked a 10-day buffalo and tuskless elephant hunt with us. It was to be a very nostalgic hunt. I discovered that, many moons ago, at a young age, he had accompanied his father to the area as guests of the then Rhodesian District Commissioner, staying at his bush house, hunting buffaloes on the Ume River. Frik wanted to try and find what remained of this old DC’s house and relive his childhood memories. This was a daunting task, as the house and roads were left neglected about 40 years ago, and we would have to try and find it on foot, requiring many hours of walking.
Frik had brought an open sights custom-made .458 Express rifle shooting 500-grain Dzombo flat-nosed solids. It’s an excellent dangerous-game rifle designed and developed in South Africa, and built by well-known gunsmith Danie Joubert. It can do what a .458 Lott does at lower pressures, and can easily deliver 2300 fps with 500-grain bullets. The reason is that it uses a case that has been lengthened to three inches, giving it just that extra capacity and performance. It works very well on African dangerous game and other big game. I prefer flat-nosed solids. In Africa it has proved to have a better penetration and performance on large, thick-skinned dangerous game, than round-nosed solids. The local Dzombo banded solid bullet, developed by Bjinse Visser, a South African mechanical engineer, is an excellent dangerous-game bullet that has proved its mettle and is widely used in Africa, also by many Kruger National Park game rangers. A number of years ago I substituted my use of Barnes banded solids for Dzombos, which are also considerably cheaper. South African rifle and bullet development has definitely come a long way and can stand its ground in the thick of African hunting.
On our first day we connected with a herd of elephant. We stalked carefully to within shooting range, but alas – no tuskless cow. Then we spotted another part of the herd further down the bush, and slowly circled downwind to get a closer view. As we approached nearer, a cow (with tusks) suddenly burst through the opening towards us, ears flapping. We instinctively had our rifles at our shoulders waiting for her next move. With a lot of screaming and ear-flapping she came forward. We shot our rifles in the air and were lucky to stop her. But it was close.
Early morning on the second day we found some good elephant tracks and followed the herd into deep riverine bush. We found the herd but it was difficult to identify a tuskless in the thick scrub. We slowly moved forward, making use of a donga (a dried-up gully) to hide ourselves, and took up position just below the herd, some 25 paces away. Suddenly, a tuskless with a calf appeared from behind a tree, but the calf was not a dependant. Another cow partly obscured the view. Frik was on my left. I could see he was somewhat nervous. The base of the donga was uneven, so I slowly put up the shooting sticks to provide some extra steadiness for his rifle as he had to shoot at a sharp, upward angle.
The cow was now very close coming in at an angle from the right. The other cows nearby started to get nervous. But the wind was holding. At 20 paces, I asked Frik to take the shot, going for a frontal brain shot when she is clear. With the other cows so close around we couldn’t risk a herd stampede with us exposed now in the donga and having to get out fast on the other side in case things went wrong.
The bush echoed with the first shot, but she didn’t go down.
”Shoot again,” I urged. The rest of the herd was now in total alarm. The second hot brought her down in classic brain-shot fashion, with trunk flying up and back legs collapsing. The herd stopped at the donga and then turned back. We quickly retreated to a safe distance beyond the donga and waited. Frik was elated. His first tuskless cow, and what a classic, close-quarter hunt!
On our way back to camp to fetch the skinners, we turned a sharp corner in the road close to the river and suddenly found ourselves in front of a herd of buffalo. I don’t know who was more surprised – the buffaloes or us!
“Get your rifle ready,” I told Frik while scanning the herd for a good bull and grabbing for the shooting sticks.
“Let’s wait – I don’t want to shoot a buffalo now,” Frik said softly. I looked at him in surprise.
“Why not? You booked one.”
“I don’t know,” said Frik. “Let’s discuss it at camp.” I looked at him and said nothing, wondering what was going through his mind.
“Handeyi!” (Let’s go), I said to the crew, and we left for camp to have a quick lunch before doing the skinning.
During the hurried lunch, Frik said that at the pace we were hunting we would have the hunt over in two days, and he was booked for 10 days. Also, I could detect the signs of a hunter who had tasted the excitement of hunting a tuskless.
“What does your gut feeling say, Frik? Would you rather hunt another tuskless or the buffalo?” I asked. He thought for a moment.
“If there is another tuskless on quota, I think I would go for that – it’s the same price as a buffalo, anyway.” I knew it – he was now hooked on tuskless hunting, and I made the necessary arrangements to swop the buffalo for another tuskless cow.
“But then let’s spend a day or two trying to find that old district commissioner’s house and do some sightseeing at the same time,” I said.
We were really looking forward to this exploration, and after a relaxed breakfast the next morning we took the dirt road north into the Nyaminyami district just north of the concession to find a base from which we could set off into the bush to explore.
After some enquiries we luckily found a local bush resident who knew about a ruin on a kopje overlooking the vast hunting area below. We parked the Land Rover below some large Natal mahogany trees, packed some water, and started the journey through the bush, not knowing exactly whether we would find the ruins, but expecting at least a 15 km walk. It was a totally wild area with beautiful streams and rocky outcrops, but after some distance we spotted a ruin high up on a kopje to our right. We changed direction to be able to negotiate the smaller hills below. Wet with sweat, we eventually arrived on top to be greeted by a desolate view below.
The house had no roof – but somehow its strong build had resisted the elements of nature enough to remind Frik of his experience some 40 years back in an era where district commissioners still existed, and you could hunt without too many restrictions and the tedious paperwork like today.
We even thought that this spot provided an excellent space to set up a camp with the beautiful view below, but there were no roads and no water, and we quickly regained our sense of reality. We spent another few hours in the area, enjoying the view from the high cliffs above the Ume, which is a beautiful river flanked with a variety of magnificent indigenous trees.
The next morning it was back to an early rise and hunting. We spent quite some time hot on the heels of numerous elephant herds. On the fifth day, after a long and hot walk of several kilometres, we took a narrow hill track that brought us over a high ridge back towards camp. Just as we entered the plateau, we saw a herd of elephant feeding in a natural enclave to our right.
But they saw us first and took off across the open plateau. We had no place to hide and were quite exhausted after the long midday walk. I knew the herd would not go far, so I decided not to disturb them and rather hit straight for camp and a nice lunch and rest, and take up the pursuit later in the afternoon. After lunch one tracker reported that he saw the herd slowly moving back about two kilometres from camp which was as good news as we could get.
At about 4 o’ clock we started to move again, this time cautiously in the direction where they were seen last. It wasn’t long before we could hear them. It was like a light breeze of leaves rustling in the wind. We approached carefully downwind, knowing this was the time they would start moving. Elephants can hear you from a mile away, so it requires exceptional care to stalk close to them.
Hunting tuskless cows requires a somewhat different technique from hunting bulls. You don’t know where they are, or whether, in fact, there are any in the herd. So you have to approach the herd in the thickness of the bush from several sides, if the direction of the wind allows you. We tried several angles without success.
Then my sixth hunting sense kicked in. I was involuntarily drawn to a narrow corridor that allowed us a glimpse into the herd. I motioned Frik to go down on his knees, and we slowly crawled our way in, and stopped with the trackers behind us. I noticed a large tuskless cow on the other side, about 40 yards off, slowly moving to our left. The herd was beginning to move out. Then I heard a crash of breaking branches right in front us at 20 yards, but we could not see the elephant.
“Wait until the cow at the back comes somewhat within shooting distance,” I whispered. But Frik was on my left and directly in the way of the elephant in front of us. “Keep an eye on her when she comes through,” I added.
It all happened in seconds. She came through directly in front of Frik at about 16 paces.
“It’s a tuskless! – Shoot!” She saw Frik, wavered a second, and moved forward.
“Watch out, she’s coming!” Then all hell broke loose. She burst completely through the bush, breaking tree branches on her way to us, now about 10 paces away. Frik’s long body erupted into combat mode, and the .458 Express barked. It just missed the brain, she stumbled, but kept coming.
A dead, long, one-second silence followed, with no follow-up shot. I was on Frik’s right and sensed something was wrong. I moved quickly forward to take the shot. Then a shot went off that rang through my ear and head, with the tuskless six paces away. The cow’s trunk swept up and her back legs collapsed. It was all over.
“What was wrong?” I asked Frik.
“The shot didn’t go off. I had to rework it!” Frik replied.
That is tuskless hunting! Although everything was under control, one must always be prepared for the worse. Tuskless cows can be extremely bad tempered and dangerous, but Frik had stood his ground as a dangerous-game hunter, and his dedication and perseverance paid off.
The US ban imposed on the import of elephant trophies in 2014 has hit the hunting industry in Tanzania and Zimbabwe hard. However, it has opened up the limited quota for hunters from other countries. The mooted change in CITES regulations for elephants (moving it to Appendix 1 for certain countries) will just make elephant trophy importation much more difficult. Hunting tuskless cows is an alternative.
Risky. Thrilling. Affordable – and you don’t necessarily have to import the elephant hide. The exciting hunting experience alone is just worth it!
Bio
Dawie Bezuidenhout of Denonanje Safaris concentrates on hunting dangerous game since 2000. He mostly hunts in Zimbabwe and Tanzania.
First African Safari
South Africa: 2015
First African Safari – Hunting with Dirk
By Michael G. Mathis
I landed in Johannesburg with my son Michael G. Mathis Jr after an uneventful flight, and after a three-hour wait in Customs, we boarded the plane to Port Elizabeth. As we’d had only thirty minutes left to board the flight, I was glad I had the pre-approved firearm permit which prevented further delays.
We arrived in PE, and on our way to the Mayogi Safari Lodge which is situated in a canyon that teemed with wildlife in the foothills and surrounding mountains, we spotted impala, springbok, and kudu. Mayogi Safaris is a first-class, fair-chase operation on 35 000 acres owned by the family since 1882, and the only bait and blind hunts are for baboons and jackal.
We had an early night. The next morning at breakfast we met the camp staff and then were off to the rifle range to sight in the guns. I had both of my pre-64 Winchester Model 70s. My .30-06 with a Leupold VX-ll in 2-7X and a .375 H&H Magnum with a Leupold VX-lll in 1.75-6X sighted in a little over an inch high at 200 yards as I was advised that shots would be 100-350 yards. Both guns were pretty much on, so no adjustments were needed. Dirk, our PH for the first two days, was most impressed with the pre-64 Wins, especially the .375 H&H. He and most hunters we met in Africa carried Winchester model 70s and admired pre-64s.
En route to the range with our cameraman JG du Toit and Baby the tracker, we had passed a small herd of springbok and a smaller group of impala. As we approached the range we saw two beautiful sable bulls – the only sable we would see during the trip. Sable was not in our package, so it was great to see them.
We left the range and the safari began. I intended to start the safari with my .375 H&H and only shoot a kudu and impala. However, my son refused to hunt until I had shot everything on our quota which included blesbok, springbok, and duiker.
While scouting in the foothills, Dirk spotted a herd of blesbok in the distance, so we drove a short way and then began to stalk for about a mile. We followed a streambed and climbed out, two small ridges before the spot where the blesbok were gathered. Then Dirk stopped and pointed to an area of dense cover about 200yards away down in the streambed to our right. I looked and looked but could not see the herd, or any animals. Dirk put the sticks up, set my rifle in them and told me to look through the scope. I looked and sighted the head of a beautiful trophy-class impala ram above the brush: It was perfectly centred in my scope.
“Take him?” I asked Dirk.
“Yes.”
BANG! The impala dropped from sight, and the herd exploded from the bush, scattering in all directions. It was very similar to shooting whitetail deer in the thick stuff in Pennsylvania.
“You missed; shot right over him,” said Dirk.
I said calmly and softly, “I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I made a good shot, I think I got him.”
“Where did you aim?”
I pointed to my left chest.
“Well, you do have a .375 so it might have gone right through him and it was the dust kicked up behind him. Man, you shoot fast!”
Dirk sent Baby, the tracker, down to take a look. The impala lay right where he’d been standing. The round went from his left chest, diagonally through him, exiting in front of the right hindquarter. After Baby attended to the impala, we continued the stalk to the blesbok.
Up a small ridge, down in the stream again and then up the next ridge. The small herd of blesbok was across the canyon on the side of a hill. Dirk told me to shoot the sixth one from the left. I mentally counted till I got to the sixth, squeezed the trigger, and he dropped. “Man, you shoot fast!” Dirk said again. We had two animals down 30 minutes apart! The .375 was talking! I had shot the impala at 175 yards and the blesbok at 200 yards with the scope set at 1.75 power for each. I was sticking with the .375 until I got a kudu.
We went back to camp and relaxed until early evening when we were going out again. With about two hours of hunting light left, we went out into the foothills near the camp after kudu. We crossed a stream and were crawling through brush up the bank where we came upon some ruins of an old farm. There were two 1930s vintage truck hulls rotting away, and a windmill lying on the ground. The brush was very thick with gnarly, woody stems, similar to mountain laurel, but not quite as bad as the laurel in Potter County, PA. We climbed fairly high up the ridge and set up to glass an area below, a valley in front of us, and another ridge beyond us. We didn’t see a kudu, but did watch a group of five impala rams fighting with one another 300 yards below us.
Altogether, the first day’s game sightings also included steenbok, Blesbok, Judsen’s Geese, and Egyptian Geese.
The second day of our safari with Dirk as PH, we headed high into the mountains after kudu. Some kudu choose to live on the plains, some in the foothills, and some high in the mountains like billy-goats. As we started up the mountain we encountered numerous small herds of young kudu bulls and cows, larger herds of red hartebeest with kudus intermingled, and herds of impala and springbok.
Dirk and Baby spotted a large kudu bull with a herd of red hartebeest heading just below the ridgeline of the tallest peaks. We drove in as close as we dared and then closed the rest of the distance on foot. Dirk told me to fill the magazine of the .375, chamber one, and put the scope on 5 or 6 power. The stalk led to a point on the ridgeline giving us pretty good observation in all directions, except the slope directly in front of and below us.
The hartebeest traversed the ridge and were heading across the slope to our front. The kudu bull separated from the hartebeest and was crossing from the right to the left a bit lower behind them. I had a hard time locating him as I was focused on the hartebeest. I finally spotted him and took a careful, well-placed shot while he was trotting and managed to hit him before he disappeared into the heavy cover. I hit him hard and rocked him but he didn’t drop.
The kudu was definitely hurt and not in a hurry to go anywhere. Dirk took a couple of quick shots and connected on one. He told me to keep shooting as we didn’t want to lose him. Dirk shot again and missed. I took a hurried, unsteady shot and missed. I then settled into a good sitting position and took a carefully executed shot, striking the kudu in the neck and out the off shoulder, which knocked him over.
The kudu bull was a nice one, and an old one; he only had one tooth left in his mouth and it was very loose. He was at the end of his life for sure, estimated to be 15 years old! The first shot on was at a trotting target, 270 yards away in a stiff wind. Later that evening before supper, Marius Van Deventer, the oldest living PH in the Eastern Cape, my PH for the remainder of the safari, told me that at that distance on a trotting kudu, I should have held one metre in front of him.
That day’s game sightings added nyala to the list, plus vervet monkeys, mongoose, warthog, bushbuck, and a hawk I couldn’t identify.
Well, one of the main things that I learned in Africa is your eyes and mind need time to calibrate the African scenery. The trees for the most part are much shorter than the trees in a temperate, Pennsylvania forest. The predominant tree species on Mayogi Safari land was wild plum, six to 10 feet high. Trees this height, make distant objects appear very far off, as my mind and eyes are calibrated for trees in the 30 to 100 feet category. It took a while, but I finally dialed in what 200 yards looked like in Africa. I did this with the football field method of comparison.
As we were in the southern hemisphere, about as far south as you could be on African continent, July is the middle of winter. The temperatures for the most part were nightly lows of 45°F and daytime highs of 65°F. One night it got down to just above freezing point! But the weather was very comfortable for outdoor activities with a bonus of not having to worry too much about any snakes.
Together with the people, the place and the ambience, a wonderful hunting experience.
My Nyala
By William Archibald
This time last year, I was diagnosed with prostate cancer. There was surgery. Clean margins, they said. Great News.
I’m riding a commuter train into Philadelphia to Jefferson Hospital. It’s a routine follow-up, and I’m hoping for a zero PSA reading. I shouldn’t, but I have more apprehension now than when we were looking for my friend’s wounded buffalo. Cancer scares me a lot.
The train is full. It’s raining and everyone is a little wet. The windows are dirty. We’re passing through Camden. Not exactly a garden spot.
I close my eyes and I’m following PH Roche du Preez through high bushveld, a mixture of thornbush, high yellow grass, and a scattering of trees. The sun is bright and warm on my face.
Roche’s instructions are straightforward and uncomplicated.
“Stay behind me. Get your rifle on the sticks as soon as I put them up. Don’t shoot until I tell you.”
I know the drill. I’ve hunted with Roche before. Up ahead somewhere is a nyala bull. He was a breeder, but you know nyala – they fight and he lost. He has a broken ankle, and now he must be removed.
We move slowly, heads swiveling, eyes searching. Every shadow, every dark spot. Roche moves easily and quietly, but then he’s half my age – same age as my daughter, in fact. I move with him, although not quite as easily nor as quietly. I’m more accustomed to oak leaves and huckleberry brush in New Jersey. He was born to this.
I strive to stay within 2 feet of the shooting sticks – they are presently carried at trail arms. I can look around and ahead for the nyala. I have a pretty good eye for game. I also work on moving quietly. Watching where I walk. Trying not to crunch on sticks, trip over rocks, or walk into a thornbush. We have hunted together enough so that I can read Roche’s body language. His head goes slightly forwards, his shoulders droop, and he crouches a little. He’s on to something.
Now, the sticks are carried at high port. It’s time to really pay attention. I close the distance to within 2 feet of his back. I focus all my attention on staying close and moving quietly. Roche is my eyes and ears now. No need for me to look around – just stay close and stay ready. He moves, I move; he stops, I stop.
The sticks are up. I move, using his body to shield my movement. The .270 goes onto the sticks. The safety comes off as soon as the forearm touches down. I see the nyala for the first time through the scope.
Roche’s left shoulder is behind my right. His head is next to, but a little behind, mine. His binos are parallel to my scope. I know this, but I am unaware of it now.
All my focus, all my concentration is on that little circle of light. I pour myself through the scope. Just me, the crosshairs, and the nyala.
He is standing in the shade of a big tree. Practically invisible, his coat blending in perfectly. Motionless. The light breeze is on my cheek, just to the left of my nose – good. He is slightly left of broadside, excellent position for a shot. About 100 yards – no problem there. But… there is a lot of tall grass between him and me.
I want to hold, just above the joint where his shoulder and body come together, but I can’t. There’s just too much grass in the way. This 130-grain bullet isn’t going to buck much brush.
The crosshairs settle higher on his shoulder. I should catch lungs and spine. That should do it. I’m steady. I check the scope for parallax. The bull stands motionless. I’m waiting for the word from Roche. It seems like a long time, but it isn’t really. I hear him say, “Take him.”
I begin to squeeze. I’m totally unaware of the sound of the shot. I’m barely aware of the recoil, but as the image through the scope begins to distort, several things happen in the blink of an eye.
Halfway to the nyala, I see a grass-top flick sideways. I hear the bullet strike with a flat slap. I see the bull drop like a cinderblock.
Habit takes over. As I lift the rifle off the sticks I bolt a fresh round. The safety comes on without conscious effort. I stoop and retrieve the spent brass and shove it into my back pocket.
We are moving. The sticks are back to trail arms. The grass is chest-deep in places. We move at an oblique angle to approach the nyala from a safe direction – my rifle is at high port in case another shot is necessary. But it isn’t.
I look down at the magnificent nyala bull. Life has left him. There are no high fives, no hooting, no hollering, no laughter. This is a solemn occasion. I have killed this beautiful animal. I console myself with the knowledge that his memory will live with me for the rest of my life. His glorious shoulder mount will hold a place of honor in my home. I will look at him every day and remember him. A fitting epitaph for this magnificent nyala bull. Far better than a banquet for hyenas and buzzards.
It’s a two-week safari and there are other memories to be made. For now, I am content. If I had to fly home tomorrow, it would be enough. Thankfully, I don’t. There will be a red hartebeest, a blue wildebeest, a springbok, and a kudu. Each has his own story. Each will make his own memories for me. Each will hold a place in my heart.
The train jolts to a stop. Market Street. Next stop is mine. A two-block walk, and I’ll get the word. Good or bad. Africa, South Africa, Roche, and the nyala have filled my mind and my time. The memory has eased the difficult trip. That alone is a fitting memorial to that fine bull.
There are some very dark places in my life. Yours, too, I’ll bet. At my age, there are bound to be many more. That’s life. That’s getting old. I accept that.
I’ll always have that high yellow grass, the thorn bush, a scattering of trees, the sun on my face, and that big beautiful nyala bull.
I don’t even have to close my eyes to see it all. You see, there’s more to a safari than just a dead animal. His life and death have added so much to my life. So much more.
There is a lesson here for all. Don’t wait. If you want to do something – anything, DO IT. Age, illness, or luck may intervene at any time. Take the first step. The second step will follow, then the third, and others. You don’t want to be lying there, looking up, breathing your last and thinking, “Damn! I wish I had ________!”
I’m going back. Sooner than anyone expected, myself included. Life is too short. Don’t deny yourself your passion. Besides, there is a big, old eland with a bad attitude making trouble on Roche’s ranch, and I mean to put a stop to that.
I hunt with Roche Safaris of Swartruggens, South Africa. My rifle is a Remington 700 in .270 Win. I use Barnes VOR-TX ammunition 130 grains. My rifle scope is a Leupold VX3 3.5x10x40mm. My binos are Bushnell NatureView 10×42.
Oh, yes. My PSA was 0.
William has been hunting for 56 years – moose in Maine, caribou in Quebec, mule deer and antelope in Montana, and whitetails from Maine to North Carolina and most states in between.
His first safari was a retirement gift from his wife in 2011, a second in 2015, a third in 2016.
Next safari is scheduled for April 2017 and he will be taking his daughter and seven-year-old granddaughter.
My magnificent nyala bull scored 74 on Safari Club International scale. Note his left hind leg broken at the ankle.
The Last of the Best
Zimbabwe: 2015
THE LAST OF THE BEST
Kyle Ball MD
It couldn’t have been a more perfect setup: 10.35 a.m. Mid-July. Zimbabwe’s famed Zambezi Valley. Hurungwe Hunting Block.
Already that morning we had spotted, approached and passed on three other elephant bulls, but now we had before us – at only 16 yards – the bull that I had traveled over 12,000 miles to hunt, and that I had waited a lifetime to find.
The wind was steady in our faces as we made our final approach. The elephant was standing with his entire left side exposed as he fed quartering away from us in a thicket of jesse bush, so characteristic of the Zambezi Valley.
Safari outfitter and professional hunter Gordon Mace of GEM Safaris was just off my left shoulder, holding his Brno .505 Gibbs in the ready port arms position. Without taking his eyes from the bull, he slowly smiled, and with his index finger pointed to his eyes and then to his heart.
This maneuver could only make me smile. These hand signals had been reviewed countless times before as we had made similar approaches on other dangerous game that had led up to this finale. No words were exchanged, no chance of a voice spooking our quarry. Gordon was “old school” in all conduct relating to a safari, but never more so than in this regard. Its meaning was simple and direct:
“Eyes on target – bullet through the heart.”
That sounds simple enough. The heart/lung region of a Zambezi Valley elephant bull is huge, at least 4 x 4 feet square. Place a 400-grain Trophy Bonded Sledgehammer solid from my .416 Remington Magnum into that square, and death was assured, albeit after a several hundred yard “death sprint”.
But I envisioned a side brain shot, the classic kill shot, instantaneous. The bull’s massive head and trunk will fly upwards as its huge hind legs collapse under it. Gordon and I had discussed this many times over our nightly mopane fire, situated in our camp along the banks of the Zambezi River.
“The side brain shot is awesome and must be dead-centered to be effective,” he said, “but it allows no margin for error, because the elephant’s brain is very small relative to its body size and is encased in a labyrinth of spongy bone. A poor shot will only momentarily stun it. It will take off at great speed and will certainly ‘ramp the horizon’- unrecoverable, taking along with it your hopes and dreams and your very expensive trophy fee!
“Because it possesses such a huge margin for error, that’s why the side brain shot is reserved for professionals, and the heart/lung shot is left for amateur safari hunters.” I asked how he knew so much about the subject.
“In my younger Rhodesian days, I was part of a PAC (Problem Animal Control) unit. We had to deal with all types of game, but primarily dangerous game that was encroaching on villages or crops throughout the country. Over those years, I accounted for many elephants as well as Cape buffalo and hippos. It was dangerous and trying. You had to quickly master brain shots from any conceivable angle, and you learned quickly the exact location of the brain, for to miss it meant a long follow-up or a lost animal.”
As I looked at the trophy bull in front of me, I glanced at Gordon, and with my index finger pointed to my eyes and then to my temple. Side brain shot – that’s what I want!
Gordon grinned but firmly pointed to his eyes and then to his heart: EYES FORWARD ON TARGET – HEART/LUNG SHOT! As our eyes met in that instant, I could read his mind – this was not a suggestion. This was a command!
Engage the target—don’t muck this up!
As my .416 Remington Magnum came to my shoulder, peripherally I could see Gordon’s .505 Gibbs also being brought to bear. As the heavy duplex reticle of my Leupold 1.5 x 5 Dangerous game scope found its mark, what little trigger slack remained was taken up by my trigger finger.
“BOOM!” My Sledgehammer solid exploded from the end of the barrel and instantly hit the target, one-third up and slightly behind the elephant’s left front leg. It reacted instantly to the shot, stumbling slightly at first but quickly recovering and accelerating away from us, along the path it had been facing. Quickly chambering another round, I aimed for a high spine shot as the bull was quickly gaining both speed and distance.
The second shot impacted just to the left of the massive spine, but the only visible reaction from the bull was to alter its course suddenly, turning sharply to its left, exposing that side of its massive head and body, now 90 yards away. As I chambered my third round, I heard the deafening roar of Gordon’s .505 Gibbs immediately to my left and was amazed to see the bull’s head and trunk fly straight up as its back end collapsed.
For a few seconds I stood there motionless. Gordon rocked me back into reality with a hard slap on the shoulder.
“Kyle, follow me quickly. Reload your weapon NOW!”
I reloaded as we ran, following Gordon around the dense jesse bushes. We were circling downwind and coming up behind the fallen monarch, to give the finishing shot.
“Here, Kyle, here!” Gordon pointed. “In the back of the skull. Do it now!” As my third bullet found its mark, the bull of my lifetime lay silent.
At that moment, the world seemed to stand still. It was that surreal. For me, what had only seconds before been controlled chaos was now deathly silence. I was now finally able to lay my hands on this elephant bull – OUR elephant bull. As I stood silently, Gordon and the trackers moved off slightly to one side to give me some space as the realization of exactly what I had done – what we had done together as a team – began to sink into me.
This bull elephant – so majestic – so old – that had seen countless sunrises and sunsets with possibly thousands of other elephants in its lifetime, and had passed his genes on to many progeny – lay still in death at my feet.
After several minutes, Gordon came alongside me and hugged me tightly. “Kyle, it is such a privilege for me to be able to share this priceless moment with you. He is a superb trophy. He should only belong to a superb hunter such as yourself. Hunted ethically in a free-range environment, taken quickly and cleanly with the utmost respect.”
As I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye, I could only nod in silent agreement.
Bio???
TO GO IN A BLOCK:
This, and other adventures, were shared with and guided by one of the “Last of the Best” professional hunters on the Dark Continent – my friend and mentor Gordon Mace. I am blessed to have seen Africa through his eyes and to have felt Africa through his heart and soul.
So many American hunters, pushed by the times in which we live, have the mantra, “Maximum animals in minimum time,” animals that meet SCI minimums for inclusion in the Record Book and other such drivel – a sharp contrast to Gordon’s mentality. A safari is truly a journey to him, not just what animals are taken. It is everything – the sights, sounds and total experience.
Reared in the “old school” Rhodesian (now Zimbabwe) manner, to him a safari consists of an outstanding camp with a well-trained and competent staff in true, fair-chase big-game safari country. The Zambezi Valley is an example of such a destination and has been Gordon’s favorite since he was a 19-year-old, freshly minted officer in the Rhodesian army. Initially posted to Chirundu on the Zambian border deep in the Zambezi Valley, this hunting paradise quickly captured the soul of this aspiring young hunter, and immediately on arrival Gordon bought his first rifle, a Cogswell and Harrison .318.
His initial forays into the surrounding bush were all on foot, and as he explored – sometimes for weeks on end – his range expanded dramatically as he survived by his wits, his increasing proficiency with his firearms, and more than his fair share of luck.
From these initial experiences in the untamed land, a personal code of conduct began to take root and, with time, became a set of standards that formed the core of a way of life that was to carry him and his family through the next 50 years.
There was always an air of confidence among the trackers under Gordon’s direction, a confidence that allowed you, the safari client, when the stalk had been closed with the animal and the trackers blended silently behind you and Gordon, to step up boldly and “engage the target.”
That confidence couldn’t make you arrogant or foolhardy because you knew that if things went awry in dangerous-game encounters, collaboration would be instantaneous and deadly. That assurance is absolutely priceless.
To hunt with a man of Gordon Mace’s character, you became a student. If you were stupid enough to arrive in Africa with preconceived ideas of “how” or “why” Africa was the way it was, you would miss one of the richest of treasures – the opportunity to see, hear, feel Africa through the eyes, heart and soul of one of its finest historians, entomologists, herpetologists and professional hunters.
Lessons of the bush, many times written in blood, are so easily transferred into everyday lessons of life. Having been fortunate to have hunted on five continents over the past 30 years with countless professional hunters, to have kept returning time after time to share safaris with Gordon, meant that his impact, at least for me, transcends time.
Leopard Magnet
Zimbabwe: 2011 – 2012
The “Leopard Magnet”
By Richard Brebner
Within 10 days we had three leopard sightings in broad daylight. I had never experienced anything like this, as normally in an area where they are hunted, the big cats are far more secretive and you seldom see them.
“You definitely have your leopard magnet activated to full strength!” I joked to Wade.
August, 2011, in the Beit Bridge area of Zimbabwe, I was hunting with Wade and Cindy Williamson from Parshall, North Dakota. Wade’s son, Matt was hunting with another PH, Terry Anders. Wade was after buffalo and elephant, Cindy was hunting a nyala, and Matt was looking for buffalo and leopard. After collecting a good buffalo and Cindy’s nyala, our focus turned to elephant.
Wade was also anxious to hunt a hyena. As luck would have it, we were cruising along the Limpopo when we saw vultures dropping out of the sky onto a sandstone ridge. My binoculars revealed a hyena skulking among the rocks. I stopped the vehicle and we began a circuitous approach, crabbing our way up the ridge, hoping to catch the hyenas unaware. We found the carcass of a young eland near the top of the ridge, but there was no sign of the hyenas that had obviously heard us coming. Closer inspection of the carcass revealed that a leopard had killed it, and the hyenas were part of the clean-up crew. Looking above the carcass, my tracker Moffat spotted movement, and there, at 9 o’clock in the morning, was a huge tom leopard glaring balefully down at us. Before we could get a good look at him he melted away over the crest. I was sure that he would have run or disappeared into the broken rocks, but we pressed forward to see if we could get another look at him.
To my astonishment he had only gone a few metres and was now above us, silhouetted against the skyline, looking back and down at us. Time stood still as we admired this lithe feline that was giving us ample opportunity to take a shot. This definitely was Murphy’s Law as we were not looking for a leopard and there was only one available tag. The tom stood there for an eternity before moving unhurriedly away. Had we been hunting leopard, this sort of scenario would never have unfolded. On the way back to the vehicle we saw a female leopard on the cliff face, also at the eland.
It was only when we got back to the vehicle that I had a brainstorm and ruefully said to Wade that we should have taken the cat. After all, it was his son in the other party and I’m sure that we could have switched tags, and Matt could have hunted the elephant. However, it was no use crying over spilt milk, and we admitted that it was still an amazing experience seeing two leopards in the space of about thirty minutes in broad daylight.
Our elephant quest continued, and the hunt was drawing to a close. Matt and Terry managed to bag a good tom but we were unable to find a big enough elephant. Wade promptly booked a 2012 hunt for elephant and leopard – we were determined to try to renew our acquaintance with our arrogant cliff-top adversary who had stared at us with such intensity seven days previously. Wade certainly seemed to attract leopard and I was keen to see if his “magnet” worked as well when we were actually trying to hunt one.
Fast forward to 2012. I picked up Wade and Cindy from Bulawayo, and of course the banter and discussion turned to leopard magnets and sightings on the four-hour journey to the Sentinel camp. I had just completed a leopard hunt where my client had gone home without his cat. We had had a huge tom feeding, but it was chased out of the blind by elephants at the crucial moment and we never got another chance. By the look of his track this was a monster leopard and would definitely be first prize for Wade. My last client had had miserable luck and came tantalizingly close, but an alliance between pachyderm and feline had robbed us.
“Maybe your leopard magnet will work this time,” I remarked hopefully to Wade.
At the time of the hunt Sentinel was experiencing a horrific drought and it would be difficult to get a leopard on bait – the weakened condition of the prey species like impala was carnivore heaven, and meals were easy to come by. Anyway, I got Wade to shoot a zebra on the opening day of the hunt. I have always had good luck with zebra baits, and it would be something different from the now emaciated impala that the leopard were having no difficulty in knocking over. We placed our first bait in the same tree that the big tom had been feeding on the previous hunt. It was at a small spring only a couple of hundred metres from the workers’ village. Three other baits were put in favorite locations, and as the days unfolded we supplemented the zebra meat with impala.
We did not have long to wait. We checked first the bait near the village which was close to camp, and to my amazement I saw a zebra leg lying along the branch and the telltale tracks of a huge tom under the bait. He had obviously fed early that morning as there was little disturbance over his tracks. We immediately left, as I was worried the tom was still in the vicinity and might be lying up near the bait. It was a huge, solitary cat, and I had a score to settle with him. It seemed as though Wade had lost none of his powers of leopard attraction from the previous year!
I could scarcely contain my excitement, and although the next bait had been hit by a good-sized tom and a female, I paid it scant attention.
We returned to the number one bait at mid-morning. I hoped that we had given the cat ample time to move away and that he was now sleeping off the effects of his previous evening’s meal as big cats are wont to do. I debated whether to leave the leopard for a night and try for him the following evening. However, Moffat and I decided to strike while the iron was hot. We found an excellent blind site – there was a small Shepherd’s tree Boscia albitrunca, near the front of the blind with a conveniently placed “V” which was just at the right height to make a solid and reliable rifle rest. I was a little concerned, as the 80-yard distance to the bait was further than I normally like, but Wade was confident that he could make the shot, even at night under a light.
In no time the blind was prepared. The set-up looked perfect and I gave my overhead light one last test to make sure that all was in order. On the way back to camp I fervently hoped that the elephants would not interrupt our hunt. Because of the drought, this was an ever-present hazard – water was scarce, and there were many elephant drinking from our waterhole.
Five o’clock saw us back at the blind and the long vigil began. The noises and voices from the village were clearly audible in the still evening air as people went about their business. Wade was immobile and silent in his chair, and Moffat and I were stretched out on the floor of the blind. Eventually, the noise from the village subsided. There were occasional visits to the waterhole by zebra and eland, their clicking hooves making distinct sounds as they slipped over the smooth pebbles to get to the water. We remained undetected in our ambush position, and a gentle breeze stole in through the front of the blind. So far, the elephants were keeping away – long may it last, I fervently hoped.
At around 10 p.m. my senses were aroused to fever pitch when I heard the unmistakable sawing cough of a territorial male from quite a distance to the right of the blind. I tapped Wade’s shoulder.
“Absolute silence now,” I whispered. The boredom and discomfort of the wait were instantly forgotten. Time passed, and then we heard our tom sawing again – he was definitely closer. Then there was nothing. Automatically doubts began to assail me. Was this rascal merely patrolling his territory? And would he pass us by? No sooner had these thoughts entered my head when our attention was riveted by the zebras’ alarm snorts coming from the left of the blind. I was sure our cat was now at the water, or maybe lying underneath the bait tree. The zebra were not happy about something, and continued their blowing and snorting. The wind remained steady, and I was sure that they could smell leopard near the water.
At precisely 11.15 p.m. we heard the unmistakable scratching sound of the cat getting into the tree. Then we heard him begin to work on the bait. In his excitement, Wade grabbed my ankle repeatedly. I reassured him with a squeeze of the shoulder. I wanted to let our tom get well and truly engrossed in his banquet before we assumed our final positions. The bone cracking continued to break the stillness of the evening. Eventually I signaled to Wade to get ready.
I slowly raised myself to the level of my port in the front of the blind and activated the red light over the bait. It was a sight that always thrilled me, no matter how many times I see it. The tom was huge and was quartering on to us, lying down while he savaged the remains of the zebra leg. I increased the intensity of the light, hoping the cat would stand up and give us a broadside shot. In my pre-hunt briefing I had already stressed to Wade the need for a clear and uncomplicated shot. Time passed, and the leopard did not change his position. Eventually he moved forward slightly, but was still crouched over the bait. I was enthralled by the sight but at the same time knew that this would not last forever. I had seen on too many occasions how suddenly and fluidly a cat can melt away from the bait. Wade’s fervent whisper entered my subconscious: “I can see his shoulder.”
“If you’re sure of the shot, take him,” and I slowly raised my fingers to my ears.
The quiet of the evening was shattered by the roar of the .375 Ruger, and then there was an audible thump. I maintained absolute quiet as we strained our ears to pick up any noise from the bottom of the branch which was not visible to us from the blind. Nothing. I radioed for the vehicle which was waiting only a stone’s throw away at the village. I was sure that the cat was dead, but was taking no chances.
We moved cautiously towards the tree, my shotgun traversing the area leading up to the bait tree, ready for instant use. Moffat carried my .416 and Wade his .375. Our fears and caution were unfounded. As our torch beam illuminated the ground beneath the tree – there he was, stone dead, an absolutely magnificent creature. I was mesmerized as I reverently ran my hands over his beautiful pelt.
Wade’s “leopard magnet” had won the day. He had taken a fabulous tom on his first night in the blind, on the third day of the hunt. Unfortunately we were not able to weigh him, but he was one of the biggest, if not THE biggest cat I had ever taken. None of us, not even big strong Philemon, the number-two tracker, could lift the dead weight cleanly off the ground. Once lifted I was scarcely able to hold him aloft. He was a tad over 7ft in length and had a green skull measurement of 16 10 /16ths. Taking that amazing tom was a highlight of my hunting career, and both Wade and I definitely got the proverbial “cherry on the cake,” taking him so early in the hunt! We added the “cream and jam” on Day 14 when Wade took a very nice, evenly matched 40lb a side elephant, which just goes to show that when the hunting gods shine on you, and luck comes your way, grip it with both hands, enjoy it to the maximum.
It does not happen very often!
