By Glenn W. Geelhoed

Safari, 2021

“Most all Gnus are Good Gnus,” we said in the lame abuse of the Ki-Swahili term for the wildebeest. But this term is easier to say than Connochaetes taurinus, the scientific name of the common blue, or brindled wildebeest. These common antelope number in the millions in Africa and have been exported as exotics into other arid parts of the world’s grasslands. Their migration patterns in following the rains and grasses they nourish constitute one of the great wildlife spectacles in the wild kingdom as a million migrants move through the Tanzanian Serengeti into the Masai Mara of Kenya in search of grazing grasslands. As they migrate, they drop calves while on the move, and attract a host of carnivore predators that stalk them. They must endure natural impediments such as their crossing of the crocodile-infested Mara River and unnatural obstructions such as road traffic.

Their fecundity has overcome their many other deficits in intelligence and visual acuity, and they frequently borrow the assets of other species, such as the superior vision of zebras with whom they congregate. The wildebeest are ruminants, with multiple stomach chambers to digest the grasses they mow down in prodigious quantities, while the zebra is a horse Equs barychelid with a single-chambered stomach. They do not compete for the same food stock, and the zebra might tolerate their company as distracting alternative lion fodder.

I had scored on a big bull blue or brindled wildebeest and was eager to explore the variants and nuances within this numerous species and its close relatives. I had spotted on an earlier hunt in the Limpopo Province of South Africa the light-colored Golden Wildebeest, a trait that can be selected for and seems to breed true as a variant of the more common brindled wildebeest. I had hunted with SCI incoming President John McLaurin as we went in pursuit of the golden wildebeest but did not close the deal on this elusive color variant at the time, as I looked into it further with Charl Watts of Watts Trophy Safaris with whom I had enjoyed hunting.

The common blue wildebeest has a recessive gene for determining blonde or lighter color within the same species, a trait first noted along the Limpopo in Botswana bordering the South African Limpopo province. The distinctive golden color can be selected in breeding programs in game farms, and such selection began in the 1990s in South Africa to produce expanding populations of this color phase. The other features of its same-species mates remain similar, but the exotic golden hue makes this variant an exotic hunting trophy.

 Charl Watts and I teamed up with P J Erasmus of MEGA Springbok near De Aar in the Great Karoo Desert of the Northern Cape Province and went in pursuit of the golden wildebeest amid the bachelor bull herds of the vast game farms of the Karoo. While hunting springbok, we had encountered a few small herds of blue wildebeest herds numbering from four to eight, with most all of them of the characteristic brindled blue color pattern. Each herd, however, contained one or more golden wildebeest which did not seem to realize that they stood out in contrast to their more standard issue dress code neighbors. We had been within two hundred meters of the wildebeest while we were intent on the pursuit of the Springbok Slam, but when our attention was attracted by the golden wildebeest, they were on to us and vanished first out of range and then out of sight.

When we had set about in earnest to pursue the blonde wildebeest, they turned into a very elusive quarry. As we cast about in the tens of thousands of hectares of Kampfontein, we saw a few small groups of blue wildebeest, but their golden siblings had vanished. When we saw the tail end of one in rapid retreat into a dry river bed amid a series of rocky hills, we took off on foot in upwind pursuit.

We crossed the riverbank, which had last seen water seven years earlier, we spotted the wildebeest tracks and followed them into the desert scrub of blackthorn. This thorn bush blooms for a week with a white flower and it was this week of the Vernal Solstice in the Antipodes that the blackthorn was in bloom.

We followed the tracks through the white-on-black scrub and over bowling-ball size rocks to reach a spot where we might push the blackthorn aside and scan the far side with our binoculars. There were three blue wildebeest bulls standing facing us at 170 meters range. Between the two on the right was a flowering blackthorn that was unusually white in patches we had not seen before when glassing the area. On more careful view, it was a golden wildebeest bull staring at us with a large mop of white mane tossed over its forehead.

PJ eased forward to my right and pushed the blackthorn aside as Charl put up the shooting sticks and I slipped the .300 Ultra Mag into the fork. PJ had put his index finger into his left ear, aware that the rifle’s muzzle brake would be next to his left side. The big wildebeest bull was twitching its tail, and the other blue wildebeest were restless and preparing to bolt. The full-frontal view would be all that I would have on the golden bull, but I had a good rest, and softly squeezed the    trigger.

With a resounding “thump” the golden wildebeest was lifted up by the 150-grain solid and jumped free of the blackthorn bush to run to its left, where it collided with a big boulder and spun around to run across in front of me. Even before I re-chambered another round, it collapsed on top of a rocky ridge in full view of each of us who had watched this brief drama. We advanced to see that the golden wildebeest bull had been hit in the left chest and had fallen to a heart shot. It was not even necessary to move the bull from the position where it had fallen as if to pose in the rays of the afternoon sun slanting across a vast desertscape of the Karoo.

It was work getting the 260 kg bull winched into the pickup truck for caping  and processing back at the MEGA Springbok facilities where the 14½ year-old bull, several years past breeding, measured a respectable trophy scoring. It would be matched next to its brindled blue counterpart on the game room wall, but that left a space still for the other wildebeest species Connochaetes gnou, or the unique black wildebeest.

For this hunt, Charl Watts and I rode over to a vast stretch of the Great Karoo Desert and climbed up a ridge to scan the distant vistas as we glassed and saw white springboks and a group of black wildebeest. We swapped stories while sweeping vast Karoo scrub as we recounted events of the Boer War era that had occurred in this Northern Cape Province with its proximity to the Kimberly diamond pipe. We moved to get a wider angle perspective when we spotted a distant group of wildebeest coming toward the ridge on which we were stationed, still well over a mile away.

A group of six black wildebeest with their characteristic upswept curled horns appeared within five hundred meters and scattered such that the biggest of the bulls stood clear at a range of 351 meters. With a steady rest and compensating for the cross wind, the .300 Ultra Mag sent the 160-grain solid precisely where it was aimed and the wildebeest dropped.

We posed in front of the hilltop ridge on which we had sat as the backdrop with the setting sun gilding the black, or white-tailed, wildebeest in its native habitat.

We collected the trophy and went to the MEGA Springbok Lodge for its further processing while the sun set on our Wildebeest Slam. The cluster of the two species in the two-color phases is now heading toward display in the gameroom as a crystallized memory of an enjoyable shared experience in the Great Karoo.

By Ken Moody

The subject of what constitutes a trophy Cape Buffalo is one that causes me great irritation. There is a contingent of hunters who firmly believe that for a buffalo to be considered a ‘trophy,’ it must be at least 15 years old, a day away from death, and sport a scrumcap on top of its head.  These are the keyboard warriors who chastise, belittle, and criticize every photo posted that doesn’t depict a buff up their nonsensical standards.  These are also the very same hypocrites that will shoot a mature whitetail buck or elk in the rut, even though the animal is still of breeding age.  These guys really don’t know what they’re talking about but somewhere along the line, have listened to some disgruntled professional hunter who likely only hunts a handful of buffalo each season, bemoan and cry about all the breeding age buffalo bulls being killed.  Trust me, these guys aren’t buffalo gurus, they simply like to appear to be. 

The bottom line is this…the MAJORITY of Cape Buffalo killed on safaris will be mature bulls of 8 plus years in age, possess reasonably hard bosses, and likely still be capable of breeding.  This is a fact and anyone stating otherwise, doesn’t know buffalo hunting.  Here’s another fact.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with shooting a mature bull regardless of its age.  ‘Hard bossed,’ is another misnomer that is not fully understood by the uninitiated.  Some mistakenly believe that a hard boss is one that is solid completely across the top of the buffalo’s head, with no gap or hairline present.  While this horn configuration represents the ultimate in cape buffalo, horn density and growth is primarily a result of genetics, not age.  Many buffalo bulls and their offspring will never fully close on top of the horn and always have a gap between them, sometimes with a thin line of hair showing.  These are not immature bulls, per se, but bulls genetically predisposed to growing horns the same way, generation after generation. 

Other considerations when discussing trophy buffalo are client preferences and likes.  Some clients prefer to hunt the oldest buffalo that can be found regardless of horn size, while others insist on hunting for a bull with great drops and width.  These are generally 10- to 12-year-old bulls that are fully mature and in their prime, but not yet past the point at which horn deterioration occurs.  The professional guiding these clients is not there to satisfy his own ego, but to hunt for buffalo consistent with the wants of the client, though advising the client on area production, genetics, and what to expect is advisable.  In my many years of operating a safari company, I’ve found that most clients just want a great hunt with a good buffalo bagged at the end of it.  For me, that means a mature buffalo bull regardless of age. 

It generally takes 8 to 9 years of age for a buffalo bull to grow a hard boss.  A hard boss can be defined as horns that are solid in the front and on top, with or without a gap between them.   There may be a softer under cap which is visible, but there should not be the soft, salty looking, two fingers or greater, growth on the front or top of the horns.  Bulls displaying these traits are immature buffalo and should not be shot, in my opinion.  Other traits of older, mature bulls are an obvious dewlap hanging down under the chin and neck, a large, box-like head, and the classic Roman nose. The following photos depict both mature and immature buffalo bulls.  

Blunted tips, worn face and horn, this buffalo is a very old buffalo, well past breeding age.

These three bulls are from same genetic line. Notice the similar horn configurations and that the horns do not close on top. 

Immature buff.  Notice the soft top and salty front.

Two good, mature, trophy buffalo.

Young buffalo.  Notice the bosses are not developed.  The center one on the right is almost there. 

Immature bulls in both these pics.  Notice the soft appearance and salty look to the tops.

Trophy assessment is best left up to the professional, but all clients should confer with their hunting outfit and discuss the trophy quality present in the areas to be hunted.  Each will have a prevalent horn type present in the buffalo due to the genetics within the herds hunted. 

With regards to horn width, 40” has always been considered the ‘holy grail’ amongst trophy buffalo hunters but any mature bull sporting horns 36” or wider is a good buffalo.  When assessing in the field, a good rule of thumb is to use the width of the buffalo’s ears as a guide.  Generally, the ears will extend around 35” in width from the head, total distance between both ear tips.  Other factors such as head size come into play, but the above is an easy way to make a general assessment.  If the horns are a hand width wider than the ears, you’re likely looking at a 40” buffalo, but a smaller head buffalo may be 39” so rely on your professional for the ultimate assessment. 

Here he is grounded.

Left: 48” giant bull.  Spotted in the evening, tracked, and killed the following day around 10 am.

A trophy animal is always in the eye of the beholder.  Don’t let internet heroes with limited knowledge determine what is and is not a trophy buffalo.  It’s your hunt and together with your professional you’ll make the decision as to whether to shoot or pass.  It’s the adventure that counts and if it’s a mature animal, you’ll cherish the memory forever.  That’s the real trophy

By Ricardo Leone

Do you remember the 1970’s American sitcom, “The Odd Couple”? The comedy’s two lead characters were Felix Unger and Oscar Madison. Felix was the uptight, neurotic, OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder) photographer whose wife threw him out of the house. Felix then moved in with his old friend, Oscar Madison, a sportswriter who, in a word, can only be described as a slob. Can you imagine hunting with an Odd Couple? Well, I can – in fact, I did!

On my first Zambian safari my hunting partner brought a third hunter who I had never met – an Austrian named Werner (aka Felix). Our outfitter, who loves a good laugh, paired Werner with his PH, Jody (aka Oscar).  Jody was a colorful character – a boisterous young South African who grew up on a crocodile farm. The first time I saw Jody he was on his cellphone arguing with his fiancée. Jody was in flipflops, short shorts with an untucked shirt exposing more of his belly than I really wanted to see. Juxtaposed was Werner, who was physically fit, well groomed, and impeccably dressed, although I am not sure who his cologne was meant to impress in the bush. Werner brought all the right kit, and be it cutting edge or traditional, it was all in impeccable condition. Jody had an old CZ rifle whose stock broke in two on their first game drive without even being shot. As the old saying goes, “opposites attract” and in little time, Werner and Jody became thick as thieves.

As a PH, Jody initially stayed in our outfitters hut. Sadly, for all of us, our outfitter’s snoring could be heard above the usual night noises of laughing hyenas, two lions roaring at each other from across the Luangwa River, and the mumbling and rumbling hippos in the river. Thus, you cannot blame Jody for seeking a bit of quiet in Werner’s hut where there was the only spare bed in the camp. Jody soon moved into Werner’s hut full time, which provided the rest of us with great amusement.  Before long the two of them seemed to coordinate their clothing – Werner with his blaze-orange shirt and Jody with blaze-orange short shorts – they were running around like two giddy schoolgirls.      

If the two of them were not amusing enough, soon Werner claimed he wished to hunt a hippo and provide the camp with the culinary delight of hippo ribs. His planned motive and perhaps primary mission was to bring back the tale of his rib creation and present the recipe and pictures to his local Austrian Gentleman’s Cooking Society. Seriously, you cannot make this up.

the rib’s glaze. Werner and his sous-chef Jody had their day’s work cut out for them as they commandeered the cook hut and went to work. The first order of business was to select the ribs to keep for the camp, while the rest of the animal went to the village for some welcome meat. I kept my distance except for a quick peak at the ribs cooking in the wood-fired oven. I must confess, they looked spectacular. Werner and Jody’s sole focus that day was the ribs. They even sacrificed their afternoon game drive. At sunset we gathered by the campfire and had our obligatory sundowners on the riverbank – always a great time of day to exchange tales of our respective adventures. Most conversation was either focused on my first buffalo or the hippo ribs. Of course, we had to keep from cackling too loud about the Gentlemen’s Cooking Society. Drinks were cut short by the much-anticipated dinner in the communal hut.

Instead of our usual buffet, we were treated to a show – the unveiling of the hippo ribs followed by the carving. As good as the ribs looked in the oven, they looked even better before carving. We had our first hint that things were amiss when Werner started to carve the ribs – either the knife was dull, or the ribs were tougher than one would hope. Jody volunteered to taste the ribs. The image looked like Fred Flintstone eating a brontosaurus rib. We all watched as Jody bit down and pulled as hard as humanly possible. When Jody eventually gnawed off a piece of meat, he was less successful chewing – the meat clearly had the same properties as his Land Cruiser’s tire. Nobody could tell you how the ribs tasted as the mission was immediately aborted – even Jody was uncharacteristically speechless as he carefully checked his teeth.

The one person who predicted this outcome was our outfitter, who had instructed the camp’s chef to prepare dinner as usual. Once the hippo rib show was mercifully terminated, our outfitter had a proper meal served. 

While the hippo ribs were a complete failure, the entertainment value was not to be denied – perhaps the end of the perfect day for most of us. As for Werner – the outcome was a real disappointment. He had meticulously documented every step for his cooking club. I will bet you a box of ammo of your choosing that The Gentlemen’s Cooking Society never heard a breath about the hippo ribs extravaganza. If I lose that bet, it’s because Werner had his accomplice, Jody, flown to Austria and lie through his teeth which, luckily, had survived the ordeal.

By Larry Irwin

Zimbabwe:  July 21-30, 2008

Up to and for much of a 10-day Cape buffalo hunt in Zimbabwe, Murphy’s Law wrecked everything. During that time, I was utterly terrified by armed military personnel, the professional hunter got lost, we had a flat tire, and found the spare tire nearly flat. We saw no buffalo until the fifth day of the hunt. Potential shots at two individual bulls were foiled, once by a zebra standing behind the targeted bull and again by a blue wildebeest within the shooting lane.

On the sixth day we spotted a truly outstanding Dagga Boy. After hearing the slap of the bullet, I saw the hard-hit bull stagger. But he regained his balance, bucked, and then kicked and ran. A dense mopane clump prevented an insurance shot; the PH and his assistant inexplicably were not prepared to back me up. Now, the dread of following up a wounded Cape buffalo in the thornbush was thrust upon us as darkness fell… 

With so many details to consider, most international hunts amazingly unfold without hitches. Yet, despite one’s best efforts, a large host of unplanned events may cause minor to major trainwrecks. Sometimes, attacks by dangerous animals stop the parade. My first Cape buffalo safari was beset with a cavalcade of human errors and frightening events that could have exploded into unmitigated disaster. Instead, the adventure instilled an even greater resolve to return.

My first dose of Africa’s indescribably addictive enchantments had caught me in 2000 in Namibia, where I shot a superb kudu and a nice gemsbok. Five years later, I shot more plains game in South Africa. By then, I was thoroughly enchanted, and it was time to go for the big stuff. So, during the SCI International Convention in 2008, I booked a 10-day hunt for Cape buffalo in Zimbabwe.

The outfitter/professional hunter promised to personally guide me within the Nyaminyami (or Omay) concession near Matusadona National Park. This location provides opportunities for clients to tour Victoria Falls and nearby National Parks. The PHarranged for private transfer for the six-hour drive from Vic Falls to company headquarters in Bulawayo, and promised to escort me from Bulawayo to the safari camp. An excellent plan, it seemed. 

Vic Falls and Chobe Park were superb. Yet, these experiences dissolved into despair shortly after I headed to Bulawayo. My hunt coincided with an impending Zimbabwean national election. The incumbent President, Robert Mugabe, had ordered travelers to be searched for gold, silver, and jewels, which were being smuggled out of the country. My driver and I encountered several military checkpoints along the highway. Rustic gates were erected and manned by fierce-looking 20-somethings packing semiautomatic rifles. These bush cadets angrily shouted orders and questions, such as, “Show me your passport! Where is your hunting permit?” I was scared spitless because I had yet to acquire a hunting permit. I could show only my U.S. passport and a visa from Livingstone, Zambia. The authoritative and incessant yelling and clenched-jaw threats with deadly weapons summoned flashbacks of terrorist scenes from the 2004 movie, “Hotel Rwanda.” I checked my pants to see if I’d had an accident. Upon leaving the second checkpoint, I considered uncasing my .375 H&H. Of course, using a bolt-action hunting rifle in a firefight would prove suicidal against semiautomatic weaponry. I hopelessly agonized that each subsequent checkpoint might turn frenetic.

My fears eased upon arrival at the safari company’s offices in Bulawayo. Yet, the flicker of security disappeared when I learned the PH was on safari and would not be my guide. He was replaced by a less-experienced PH who I dubbed “Bogus”, for reasons that will emerge shortly. Apparently, Bogus had guided hunters in the Omay region a decade previously. He arrived late and limped badly—hardly instilling confidence in his capabilities. We picked up his apprentice guide, Simone, along the way.

Darkness fell before we arrived at camp, and few landmarks remained of Bogus’ 10-year-old memories. Bogus became discombobulated, if not totally lost. We got horribly stuck in sand, punctured a tire, and the spare was low on air. Proceeding grindingly slowly, we struggled into the safari camp at about four in the morning.

The next day we searched for buffalo tracks along bulldozer-roads built by the British when the country was Southern Rhodesia. We inquired if villagers had seen buffalo recently. Perhaps anticipating financial rewards, villagers often spouted that they had indeed seen buffalo, “…three days ago at a certain location…” Yet, after reconnoitering the indicated areas for three days, the “tips” proved false. Late on the fifth day, we spotted a small group of buffalo across a wide valley, but we could not catch up.

On the sixth day, searching the vicinity of Lake Kariba, we began to see buffalo herds of 20-35 animals, lifting my hopes. We tracked one of the larger groups, which led us in a circular route through dense thickets for four hours. Suddenly, we were amid possibly 50 buffalo moving toward us. Kneeling as the animals passed us on both sides, I spotted three bulls walking directly toward us. They stopped shoulder to shoulder some 40 feet away, looking about as friendly as the front four of the Chicago Bears NFL team. I softly inquired of Bogus, an arm’s length away, “Big enough?” He shrugged and whispered, “I can’t see them clearly.” He saw only black patches at 40 feet! After a tense Robert Ruark stare-down, they ambled off. Shaken, and checking my pants again, I wondered if a shot would’ve led to disaster, realizing they could’ve killed us before we snicked off our rifles’ safeties. Murphy’s reprieve, I wondered.

While walking back to the truck, the two trackers and the government scout stopped abruptly and nervously began backing up. The scout picked up a thorny branch and began furiously striking the ground. The object of his ferocity: a large puff adder adorned with beautiful markings. I shuddered, thinking that such a deadly creature could’ve lurked where I was kneeling in the thickets.

We searched the same area the next day. While rounding a hotel-sized rock formation, we drove within 50 yards of a group of about 30 buffalo with at least two good bulls. After an awkward stand-off, they slowly moved over a hill; we followed. After six hours of alternately catching up and bumping the herd, we turned around because the sun was about to kiss the horizon.

As we topped a hill that afforded a nice view of Lake Kariba, we glimpsed a stunning bull with widely swept horns and a huge boss, in an opening about 200 feet away and perhaps 75 feet below us. He was a bona fide Harry Selby-approved 40-inch-plus Dagga Boy! He stopped, offering a nearly picture-perfect broadside shot. Bogus set up the shooting sticks, and you can bet a bottle of your best Glenlivet that I got on target faster than Annie Oakley in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show. Still, I had the presence of mind to hold the scope’s crosshairs a tad high to assure the bullet would drive deeply into the bull’s boiler room.

Holding onto my third breath, the “thwap” of the 300-grain bullet from my .375 Ackley Improved Winchester was quite pronounced, and he was rocked to his knees. Staggering as he regained his balance, he bucked like a Professional Bull Riders’ rodeo bull, and then ran. As I worked the bolt, I glanced sideways to see if Bogus and Simone were aiming their .416s. Professional hunters generally perform the finish work on dangerous game, unless the client specifies otherwise. I was gob-smacked to see both Bogus and Simone with their hands covering their ears and their rifles pressed between their legs! The bull disappeared behind a dense mopane clump and I was unable to send a follow-up shot.

After listening for what felt like years for the death bellow that didn’t arrive, my not-so-intrepid companions were obliged to take up the spoor. We immediately found both deep-red and bright frothy blood splashes on bushes on both sides of the trail. The bullet had driven completely through the bull’s chest. The spoor led to a narrow drainage-way where the jesse was extremely dense. Visibility was only a few feet. By then, the sun had set, and with daylight fading fast, we wisely stopped. To continue tracking a wounded buffalo under such conditions would’ve been an embossed invitation to the Biblical destroyer. We would return shortly after sunup, confident we would find the bull stone dead.

The following morning, after tracking the bull less than 100 yards we found where he had collapsed to his side in the sand. The elongated depression of his body was nearly filled with a massive pool of blood, the surface of which remained uncongealed. It looked like he’d arisen only seconds earlier. With the two trackers a few steps in front, we spread out in a 10-yard line—Simone, Bogus, then me (ordered to stay one step behind), and finally the scout, who packed a .30-06 with a cracked stock. The tension was thicker than creosote smoke. With shouldered rifles, we proceeded with wide-eyed caution, believing the wounded Dagga Boy was close enough to breathe down our necks.

After one-stepping for another 150 yards, then turning a corner, the two trackers suddenly stiffened and began backing up, very much like they did with the puff adder. “Africa’s version of show time,” I thought. As four safeties were snicked to “fire,” I heard what sounded like raucous screaming. The boys then wheeled and scattered like quail past Simone, Bogus and me. The unspoken message was crystal: “Get the Hell out of Dodge!” We obediently turned and ran.

After my adrenaline-fueled imitation of an Olympian sprinter helped me gain some altitude, I asked a huffing and limping Bogus, “Is the bull charging? Why aren’t we shooting?” He simply blurted, “Elephants!” Needing no further encouragement, I hastily continued moving toward the others atop the hill. Simone explained, “There’s a mob of cow elephants with calves down near the spring.” He was aware of the spring, but Bogus had never been there. Momma elephants defending their babies don’t bluff and can swiftly convert a body into a puddle of bloody ooze. Some of those that threatened us were tuskless, and thus presumably extra nasty. Now we had to deal with two menaces simultaneously.

We returned the next morning, whereupon the gangster jumbos unceremoniously again escorted us away from the spring, where we thought the bull probably had laid up. After that, I had two additional days left on safari, and could have hunted plains game. But I dutifully spent the remaining time searching for the wounded bull which, after all, was a superb specimen. We cautiously searched for the bull’s tracks in a circular area surrounding the waterhole. We also watched for vultures and for scat of mammalian scavengers. Yet we found no evidence that might indicate a dead or living bull. Finally, the safari was over, and I returned to Montana, where Murphy launched one final insult: my custom Winchester was “lost” for five exasperating months.

At this point, the reader might ask if I regret not retrieving my first Dagga Boy and forfeiting the trophy fees. Certainly, I regret the failed promises, poor communications and my part in a beautiful animal possibly suffering a lingering death. I do not regret forfeiting the trophy fees for lost and wounded game, which I believe is proper policy. More importantly, the adventures, albeit terrifying at times, instilled an even greater resolve. I returned to Africa in 2010 and shot a good Cape buffalo in Zambia. I returned in 2017 when I shot a very big-bossed Cape buffalo near Kruger National Park with Claude Kleynhans, who tragically lost his life to a buffalo a year later.

The allure of Africa beckons me to yet another return, whether Murphy’s Law prevails or not.

Abdula, Lilian (Game Scout), Sue Tidwell, Mgogo (Head Tracker, Raphael Erro (PH)

The Widowmaker, Excerpt from Chapter 6

Racing through the mixed savanna scrublands, I dodged acacia trees and thorn-covered bushes, trying desperately to stay on Mgogo’s heels. Raphael and Rick were somewhere ahead of us. Whether it was 10 feet or 10 yards was lost on me. Keeping my eyes glued to the ground, I was looking for snakes while trying to stay upright and keeping my peripheral vision locked on my human lifeline. Although I couldn’t see Abdalah or Lilian, the rustle of parched grasses told me that they were trailing close behind. The previous day’s slow deliberate games of Follow-the-Leader were gone, replaced without warning by an urgent speedy version.

Running has never been my thing. Ever. Ever. Ever. Short legs on a 5’3” frame are not the best asset for sprinting the 100-yard dash. My body was ill-equipped to keep up a blood-pumping, air-sucking pace for any length of time. Luckily, adrenaline and fright provided a little extra oomph. There was such urgency, but I was clueless as to why.

Everything had happened so fast. Only 20 minutes earlier, amid the typical fanfare of parting encouragement, we pulled away from Masimba Camp and settled in for another jarring drive through pitted countryside. Not only was the morning’s breakfast still parked in my stomach like a freight train, but I was combatting another relatively sleepless night. We had again been haunted by the hyenas’ eerie vocals and Simba’s blood-curdling serenades. Restless nights in the bush seemed to be par for the course.

My food-induced, sleep-deprived stupor was shattered when Raphael and Mgogo pointed excitedly, rattled something off in Swahili, and pounded on the cab window. As soon as Mike stopped, everyone erupted from the vehicle like it was about to explode. Adrenaline permeated the air as Raphael, Rick, and Lilian grabbed their rifles and Mgogo seized the shooting sticks. Gawking in confusion, I followed suit and scrambled to the ground. Yet, I had seen nothing!

Before I could make sense of anything, we were dashing through the brush. The steady, carefully placed steps of the previous day’s pursuits had given me a sense of security, especially when it came to avoiding snakes. At this reckless pace, however, thoughts of sluggish puff adders or black mambas unable to make a speedy exit filled my head and provided an incentive to stay on Mgogo’s heels.

Just when I was about to keel over, we caught up to Raphael and Rick. They were crouching behind “a cluster of trees peering through a hole in the branches. Following their gaze, I saw them. Hundreds of them. Cape buffalo in a long strung-out formation barreling across the savanna only a few hundred yards in front of us. It was like a scene from a cowboy movie. Instead of familiar-looking cattle, the charging bovines resembled fiercer versions of black Angus bulls, only with massive terrifying horns. Hundreds of hooves kicked up clouds of dust as the ground trembled under our feet. Grunts, bawls and bleats rose above the thunderous roar. Somehow, during the mad dash, this clamor had escaped me.

After a moment, we returned to the previous day’s slower, more meticulous game of Follow-the-Leader, advancing tree to tree, 10 to 20 yards at a time. Adrenaline, disbelief, and blind obedience worked together propelling me forward, still on Mgogo’s heels. As the distance dwindled, stories of the Cape buffalo’s ferocity and cunning came flooding back to me. Cape buffalo — aka nyati, mbogo, narri, inyati, dagga boy, ‘Black Death’, or ‘Widowmaker’ — earned its designation as dangerous game and was placed among The Big Five by living up to the requirements of that exclusive club. Responsible for killing an estimated 200 people a year, these black brutes are every bit as deadly as lions, leopards, rhinos, and elephants.

As hundreds of forceful strides battered the earth just 200 yards away, stories of the buffalo’s ferocity flooded my brain. Dread filled my innards as the distance between us shrank. The fear, a primal ancient fear, was unlike any from our civilized world. My lizard brain, that part of me responsible for survival instincts, kicked in, driving me forward.

At my core, I knew that the safest place for me was in the shadows of the men and woman I was with. I trusted the calm, cool strength of my husband, and even after such a short time, I had complete faith in the skills of Raphael and Mgogo. Lilian too was close behind with her AK47, a rifle meant for poachers but nonetheless capable of other uses.

After darting forward a few more times Raphael suddenly stopped. Mgogo set up the shooting sticks. Rick rested his gun in the cradle of the tripod, placed his arm on my shoulder for stability, peered through the scope of his rifle, and put his finger lightly on the trigger.

At 140 yards, we were further than the preferred shooting distance. Apparently, Raphael felt comfortable with Rick’s accuracy at that range. Typical of all African hunts, a portion of the first afternoon had been spent at target practice sighting in guns, allowing PHs to judge their client’s abilities. A critical factor when assessing hunting’s logistics.

By the time Rick was on the shooting sticks and we were in position, nearly three-quarters of the herd had passed by. The flurry of pursuit was replaced by a waiting game. For the first time since exploding out of the vehicle, I stood utterly motionless gazing in wonderment as the mesmerizing scene played out in front of me. Buffalo after buffalo pounded by. Some were in bunches, some scattered, some hugging the fringes of the herd, with calves seemingly nestled in the middle. The irregular ribbon of supersized bovine spread out for hundreds of yards across the savanna. Except for the calves, they all looked like carbon copies of each other: huge black brutes with massive, curled horns. Horns that from an untrained eye all looked the same. I couldn’t tell a cow from a bull; a young bull from an old bull.

Like the kudu, Rick didn’t have the skill to judge African species. It was totally up to Raphael to find a mature shootable bull amid this hornet’s nest of galloping Nyati. As they continued to stream by, over and over I thought to myself, “What’s wrong with that one?” or “How about this guy?”

You must remember, we sacrificed a lot to pay for our trip. The previous day’s 13 hours of dodging elephant potholes, tracking the old dagga boy, and stalking multiple species with no success were in the back of my mind. Although those experiences had been worth every penny, I knew the opportunity to hunt Cape buffalo had been Rick’s dream since picking up his first safari magazine at 8 years old.

Loving someone means that their dreams also become your dreams. And so even as a non-hunter with reservations about hunting certain species in Africa, I desperately wanted Rick to fulfill his long-awaited quest.

Another tank-like black blur stormed by. Then another. And another. As the tail end of the stampeding buffalo herd came into view, the conversation inside my brain switched from subdued questioning of each buffalo’s merits to urgently screaming, “What’s wrong with that one?!” Then, finally, my unspoken shriek was answered when Raphael pointed to the very last bull, a straggler 15 yards behind the moving mass of blackness.

“That one,” he whispered.

Unexpectedly, another thought entered my brain. What if I flinched as Rick was ready to pull the trigger? With his elbow resting on my shoulder, I would screw up his shot. Instantly, I squeezed my eyes shut. I figured if I couldn’t see, I wouldn’t react instinctively, possibly sabotaging the shot. On too many occasions in the past, calm had eluded me. While living in Alaska, where Rick and I met, each of our hikes included trailhead postings warning ‘Stay calm during a bear encounter. Do not run!’ Detailed instructions followed, primarily urging hikers to play dead if attacked by a brown bear and fight like hell if attacked by a black bear. Brown bears normally leave after the perceived threat is over, but a black bear will eat you.

Rick, Raphael (PH), Lilian (Tanzanian Game Scout), Zefania (tracker), Mgogo (Head Tracker), Mike (Driver).

Meanwhile, unbeknownst to me, the targeted buffalo spotted us, pivoted, and charged in our direction. I was, therefore, blissfully unaware that almost 1,500 pounds of disgruntled muscle was barreling straight at us.

Suddenly, I heard Raphael yell, “Shoot. Now!”

An instant later, the Boom! reverberated through my entire being. My eyes impulsively opened to see a cloud of dust and the blur of thrashing horns turning towards the receding herd. A second later, we were all we were all running across the savanna in pursuit. I had no idea if Rick had hit the buffalo or not.

Sixty yards later, everyone slowed. There he was: Nyati, lying motionless and sprawled out on the ground in front of us. Tension and vigilance pervaded the air as Raphael gestured for us to stop. Although the buffalo appeared lifeless, he instructed Rick to fire one more bullet into its spine, an insurance shot. This preventative measure was common practice for buffalo because of their reputation for retribution and refusal to die.

Even after the insurance shot, Raphael signaled for everyone to stay back while he approached the motionless mass as if it might explode at any minute. Using the long shooting sticks, he gently prodded the bull for any signs of life. Satisfied, he finally relaxed. Our whole entourage breathed a sigh of relief as worry and caution were replaced by excitement and awe. Gazing at the magnificent buffalo laying on the grass, Rick and I clung to each other as tears streamed down my face. Rick’s eyes, too, were glistening with sentiment.

Loading the Cape buffalo.

…In the retelling, amid another round of hugs and congratulations, I mentioned that I had shut my eyes and therefore had no idea the bull had charged.

Raphael looked at me intensely. Then implored in his calm serious manner, “Sue, please keep your eyes open.”

The look on his face spoke much louder than any words could have. Lesson learned. My eyes would stay open.

The good-natured banter also led to an answer regarding the earlier all-consuming question: What’s wrong with that one? Although the Cape buffalo all looked the same to me, there were subtle differences in the huge beasts if you knew what you were looking for. Both sexes do have horns; but only the males fuse on their foreheads creating the boss, or ramming instrument, as I mentioned earlier. Their horns are also much larger than the females. Therefore, picking out the males was easy. Well, easy for Tanzanians.

Distinguishing the old males from the younger males was where it got dicey. The bosses of the older bulls were larger, bone hard, and had a dullness to them. The younger bulls had bosses that were slightly smaller, shinier, and not completely solidified yet. The fact that anybody could distinguish these slight variations from over a hundred yards away, while they were in stampede mode, was dumbfounding.

Still, the primary reason that Raphael made Rick wait, and wait, and wait, until most of the herd had gone by was that the oldest,  and therefore the lowest-ranking bulls, are typically located at the back of the herd. Cape buffalo have a strong hierarchy. The low-ranking bulls that are no longer breeding or contributing to the gene pool are forced to bring up the rear until they are kicked out of the herd altogether to become dagga boys.

Animals forced to the rear of such a mob not only get inferior grazing, but they are also more at risk from predators. The high-ranking dominant breeding bulls, on the other hand, travel front and center, essentially the safest spot, while also having access to unsullied premium grasses. Finally, I knew the answer to “what’s wrong with that one?

***

Although we had expected our dinner might include the Cape buffalo that Rick harvested in the morning, we were at a loss for words when it arrived. Amid the broth in my soup was a large chunk of buffalo tail. Tidbits of meat were nestled between a framework of bones. Who knew that tails had bones? I sure didn’t.

We looked at each other wide-eyed, then dipped our spoons in the broth and hesitantly took a sip. Gaping in complete astonishment, all four of us dove in whole-heartedly. The soup was utter bliss. After our bowls were practically licked clean, Sue’s (our hunting companion) sable made it to the table in the form of lean and delicious grilled steaks.

Rick, Raphael (PH), Lilian (Tanzanian Game Scout), Zefania (tracker), Mgogo (Head Tracker), Mike (Driver).

After our meal, I shocked the whole lot of them, thanks to Lilian’s tutoring, when I casually, but a little awkwardly, stated asante kwa tamu chakula. Thank you for the delicious food. The enthusiastic reaction and beaming smiles of our Tanzanian hosts were even yummier than the buffalo-tail soup.

After dinner, Rod, Sue, Rick, and I took another chance sitting by the fire on the makeshift patio. We were pleased to find that the bats were dining in a different restaurant for the evening. Not having to dodge plunging excrement allowed me to reflect a bit.

What a day it had been: watching a herd of stampeding Cape buffalo; Rick fulfilling one of his life-long dreams; a nap under the shade trees as fresh oribi was barbecued on a spit; Swahili lessons; stalking multiple animals; and a fabulous dinner with lively conversation. Last, but not least, who could forget a huge chunk of buffalo tail creating a mouth-watering soup? The entire day was unforgettable.

Splat. Plop. The bats were back. Apparently, the main course was over, and dessert was being served under the canopy of the patio tree. It seemed the perfect time to call it a day. Who knew what the next day would bring? Lala Salama. Sleep well.