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.

This letter appears to have been written by Roualeyn Gordon-Cumming, a Scottish hunter and traveler, to his publisher, John Murray III. Gordon-Cumming spent five years from 1844 to 1849 in what could be the longest safari ever undertaken, travelling in the Northern Cape, Botswana, the Limpopo Valley and the former Transvaal.  His book, Five Years of a Hunter’s Life in the Far Interior of South Africa was first published by John Murray in 1850 and proved very popular for several years, briefly exceeding Charles Dickens’s sales.  Gordon-Cumming knew Livingstone, who was the only missionary he could turn for help and, often, guides.  While Livingstone supported Cumming’s book, Cumming’s activities brought him considerable trouble.

Poste Restante, Inverness.

19 May 1849.

My Dear Murray

I wish to thank you for your courteous reception of me and my manuscript at 50 Albermarle Street last month, soon after my return from South Africa.  I have had some time to think over the questions you asked me then, on which were the two most dangerous experiences I had.  I agree my answers would be useful in creating interest in the book, especially for reviewers.

While I have often been exposed to death wittingly, as in several very close encounters with lions, elephants and rhinoceroses, none comes close to two experiences, when I did not even realise my men and I were in danger.  The first, which I describe in this letter, concerns being stalked by a man-eating lion at night.  The second, described in the second letter, is when a far smaller but equally dangerous enemy, the Tsetse fly, nearly caused the end of our expedition.  Only Dr Livingstone’s timely assistance rescued us from a lonely death in the wilds of Africa.

As both experiences are described more fully in the manuscript, I will omit some details in these letters. 

Let me begin with the appalling tragedy of 29 August 1847.  I had recently decided to turn homeward, for two reasons.  Men we met had spoken of Moselekatze, then residing not far ahead of us, as someone who would most unquestionably murder me and my men, and seize all my property.  I was also warned that I would lose all my cattle from a fly called “Tsetse” in the country ahead.   Would I had found out more about this fly then!

On the 29^th we arrived at a small village of Bakalahari, who told me elephants were abundant on the opposite side of the Limpopo  river.  I accordingly resolved to halt there and hunt, and drew my wagons up on the bank of this river, within thirty yards of the water, and about one hundred yards from the village. 

Having outspanned, we at once set about making a kraal for the cattle from thorn trees.  Since my recent   loss from lions of two of my best horses on the first of this month, my cattle were, at night, secured by a strong kraal, which enclosed my two wagons, with the horses being made fast to a trek-tow [touw] stretched between the hind wheels of the wagons.

I worked till near sundown with Hendrick, my first wagon driver – I cut down the trees [thorn trees if available] with my axe, and he dragged them to form the kraal.   When this work was nearly finished, I turned my attention to making a pot of barley broth for supper, and lighted a fire between the wagons and the water, close to the river bank, under a dense grove of shady trees, making no kraal around our sitting place for the evening, as I did not then think it would be necessary. 

The men, without any reason, made their fire about fifty yards from mine.  As was their custom, they were satisfied with the shelter of a large dense bush behind them.  The evening passed cheerfully.  Soon after dark, we heard elephants breaking tree branches in the forest across the river, and once or twice I walked away into the darkness and stood some distance from the fire to listen to them. 

At the time, I did not realise how dangerous this was, and that a man-eating lion was nearby, watching our movements carefully.  About three hours after the sun went down, I called my men to come and fetch their coffee and supper, which was ready for them at my fire.  After supper three of them, John Stofolus, Hendrick and Ruyter, returned to their own fireside and lay down. 

A few minutes later, an ox walked out the gate of the kraal to the back of it.  Hendrick got up and drove it back inside the kraal, and then went back to the fireside to lie down.  Hendrick and Ruyter lay on one side of the fire under one blanket, and John Stofolus lay on the other. 

I was then taking some barley broth, and the night was dark and windy.  The fire was very small as wood was scarce, most have being burned by the Bakalahari in their fires. 

Suddenly, the appalling and angry roaring of a blood-thirsty lion burst upon my ear within a few yards of us, followed by the men shrieking.  Again and again, the roaring was repeated.  We heard John and Ruyter shriek “The lion!  The lion!”, and for a few moments we thought the lion was merely chasing one of the dogs around the kraal. 

But then John Stofolus rushed to us, almost speechless with fear and terror, his eyes bulging in their sockets, and shrieked out, “The lion! The lion!  He dragged Hendrick away from the fire beside me.  I hit him on the head with a burning branch, but he would not let go.  Hendrick is dead!  Oh God! Hendrick is dead!  Let us take fire and seek him!”

The rest of my people then rushed about, shrieking and yelling as if they were mad.  I was immediately angry, and told them if they did not stand still and keep quiet the lion – or lions- would catch more of us.  I ordered the dogs to be made loose, and all available wood placed on the fire. 

I then shouted Hendrick’s name, but all was still.  I told my men Hendrick was dead, and that even a regiment of soldiers could not help him now.  I released the dogs, and brought everyone inside the kraal to the fire, and closed the entrance as best we could. 

My people, terrified, sat round the fire holding their guns till day broke, expecting the lion to return and jump into our midst at any moment. 

Outside, the dogs soon found the lion, who lay within forty yards of us all night.  They kept up a continual barking until day dawned.  Occasionally, the lion would spring up and chase the dogs toward the kraal.  He had dragged poor Hendrick into a little hollow just behind the thick bush where the men had made their fire and settled down to sleep, and there he stayed all night, crunching his victim’s bones and ignoring our presence. 

We later realised that the lion had seen Hendrick leave the fire and drive the ox back into the kraal.  He had scarcely lain down when the brute sprung on him, biting him on the breast and shoulder, all the while feeling for his neck.  Once the lion had found Hendrick’s neck, he then dragged him behind the bush into the darkness. 

As the lion lay on poor Hendrick, he faintly cried “Help me, help me!  Oh God, men, help me!”  After this, the fearful beast seized his neck and then all was still, except that his comrades heard the bones of his neck cracking beneath the teeth of the lion.   

The next morning, just as day began to dawn, we heard the lion dragging something up the river side under cover of the bank.  We drove the cattle out of the kraal, and then proceeded to inspect the scene of the night’s awful tragedy. 

In the hollow behind the bush, where the lion had lay consuming his prey, we found one leg of the unfortunate Hendrick, bitten off below the knee, with the shoe still on the foot.  The grass and bushes were all stained with his blood, and fragments of his pea-coat lay around [A pea coat was an outer coat, generally made from navy-coloured heavy wool].

Poor Hendrick!  I knew the fragments of that old coat, and had often seen them hanging in dense bush where elephant had charged after my unfortunate after-rider [after-rider being the man riding after Gordon-Cumming, often carrying an extra gun.  Gordon-Cumming, and sometimes Hendrick, were often chased by elephants and other wild animals].  Hendrick was by far the best man I had about my wagons, of a most cheerful disposition, a first-rate wagon driver, fearless in the field, willing and obliging; his loss to us all was very serious.

In the manuscript, I then describe how I caught the lion the next day, and killed him with two shots.

I trust this account will [be] of interest to possible readers.  While next account is less frightening, it still shows the dangers of Tsetse fly to travelers.

Yours faithfully

Roualeyn Gordon-Cumming                

By Drew H. Butterwick – Photographer & Wildlife Conservationist. www.epicwildlifephotos.com

I guess you could pretty much say I’ve spent the majority of my life bouncing around the globe, chasing wildlife. As of 2023, I’ve stamped about 40 countries in my passport, including accumulating nearly two year’s worth of time, on multiple trips, to Africa. I’ve been behind the still camera and video lens for thousands of hours and been incredibly fortunate to witness some of our wildlife’s most amazing feats; some cute, some harsh, some beautiful and others hard to even describe without the images themselves. I’ve experienced so many fiery sunrises and sunsets, on my early morning and late-night voyages, it is simply impossible now for me to look back and try to count all the precious moments. But I always stop for a moment, to appreciate each and every unique day.

These are some of the frames and works I’ve created, to give a taste of my experiences, to portray her story in a positive light and give respect to these bold and majestic creatures and scenes! If the idea of accompanying me on a photographic safari is of interest, I look forward to hearing from you. Enjoy … Cheers!

For more images by Drew Butterwick, click here.

AFRICAN GIANT

There is a silhouette on the mountain,

See it? It moves….

There is a noise on the mountain,

Hear it? Almost soft enough to lose….

There are more now,

Than before,

That lumber with an unexpected grace,

There is a grey to their blackness,

And weaving trunks on the face.

See swooping ivory,

A polished, glorious find,

Still unburied treasure,

The type that must be tracked,

Not mined.

There is an invisibility to them,

Move and you’ll see,

They know where you are,

They say they can dream where you’ll be.

I followed these creatures,

Through brush so thick you must crawl,

And they rise like a great mist,

Mightier and greater than us all.

They appear by magic,

They leave with no trace,

What was once a trail,

Is an un-trackable place.

You find them sometimes,

When you least expect you will,

And there is a strange sensation,

Of facing that which is more equipped than you,

To kill.

They are large,

There is no other way to say it,

And there is a tremble in their charge,

And there is great fear for those who face it.

Ears back, head down,

Treasure sweeping the floor,

A trumpet that pierces,

A war cry and call.

So majestic, so strong,

So steadfastly defiant,

We can bow down respectfully,

For the African Giant.

~KENDAL-RAY KASCHULA

SILENT DEATH

If death is silence,

Then it is that unseen ripple,

That moves beneath the water,

And proves that safety is an illusion-traitorous and fickle.

It is not a Warner,

It does not live by fair play,

It is simply the winner,

For those too slow to get away.

We read them in history,

These brutes and these beasts,

Dinosaurs of epic proportions,

Completing epic feats.

He is their cousin,

Their brother,

Their son.

He is their student,

A star pupil in work well done.

He is sly, and cruel, and some would say mean,

He is a cheater,

An abuser,

The one who never gets seen.

He is criminal and crime,

He is a wet death,

He is roiling and rolling,

He is pulling out your breath.

The water is still,

Then the volcano will erupt,

The water is spraying, 

Still again-the ending is abrupt.

The water will waver,

And ripple and churn,

But the blue is died red,

And above the mourners yearn.

These victims are lost,

The graves life empty,

And he still swims beneath the surface,

His own great entity.

~KENDAL-RAY KASCHULA

Written by Enrich Hugo

Hardly any other wild species poses as many puzzles for zoologists as the Barbary sheep. Can the closer relationship be assigned to the goats or the sheep? Many zoologists place it under a separate genus called Ammotragus. Ammotragus comes from Greek and means sand goat. In common usage we mostly find names like Barbary Sheep, Maned Goat, African Tur and especially Aoudad, a term that comes from the Berber language.

The natural habitat of the Aoudad extends across all of North Africa. From Morocco to Chad to Sudan, the Aoudad has adapted to each different habitat. From the rocky, often snow-capped Atlas Mountains to the extremely arid Nubian Desert, this reddish-brown, horned wild species can be found. It is named after the long throat hairs, which are much more pronounced in males than in females.

After HuntGeo managed to open Sudan to international hunters again after 10 years, where the Aoudad is also native to the Nubian Ibex and the Eritrea Gazelle, my personal focus was of course on the Nubian Ibex and Aoudad. After my successful hunt for the Nubian ibex in Sudan, I managed to hunt a Barbary sheep after three safaris in the Nubian desert. During the first two unsuccessful hunting trips, but also during the third successful hunt, I was able to convince myself that the game density in Sudan is very low and over all the years when there has been no legal and controlled hunting, the Aoudad has been poached very heavily and hardly more to be found in Sudan. I was more as pleased to hear from my partner and friend Renauld in spring 2021, where he informed me that he had finally managed to organize the hunt for Aoudad in Morocco for the first time. For more than 10 years, we have been working intensively on this project, and now we have finally managed to hunt the Barbary sheep in its natural habitat, the Atlas Mountains. Ten permits for one hunting season. Only selected male that are at least 7 years old may be hunted. Renauld achieved another milestone with the import license for its own hunting rifle. Although I only forwarded this message to a few of my closest customers and friends of the possibility of hunting Barbary sheep in Morocco, especially among mountain hunters, spread very quickly and it wasn’t long before all 10 licenses were quickly sold out.

The hunting season in Morocco is set from mid-September to the end of March and the first hunter was already planning to come at the end of September. Unfortunately it was still too hot and the sheep were very high in the mountains. At this point it should be mentioned that the Atlas Mountains stretch over an area of about 2,500 kilometers and separate the coasts of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean Sea from the Sahara. The highly rugged mountains have a very contrasting terrain and changeable climate. The highest elevation is the Toubkal at 4,167 meters. The hunting area is located right in these High Atlas mountains and has an area of more than 100,000 hectares. The Tizi n’ Test Pass at 2,100 meters above sea level is the starting point of our hunt.

The mountains are richly forested and offer the game plenty of protection from the changing climatic conditions. Of course, this advantage for the game does not play into our cards and therefore it makes much more sense to wait for cooler weather, especially snow on the mountain tops. The snow drives the sheep further down where they can still find plenty of food. The Barbary sheep feeds on grass and herbs as well as fresh leaves. The first successful hunters finally returned from Morocco in November. Unfortunately, the Covid pandemic did not stop in Morocco either and King Mohammed VI, the regent of Morocco, ordered the borders to be closed and it was no longer possible to enter or leave the country from December 1st to February 7th. Immediately after the borders were opened, we were able to continue our hunting program very successfully. My personal presence was requested for the last two hunting guests. A request that I am very happy to comply with, as they are two very good friends and long-standing customers of mine. For the Conklin award winner Bela Hidvegi, with whom I have had the privilege of accompanying on many hunting trips, is the Aoudad in its natural habitat, the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, a hunting dream that he would like to realize. But also for my good friend Vladislav Reznik, the Aoudad from North Africa is one of the few sheep species that he has not yet hunted. The Aoudad was introduced to Spain in the early 20th century and from there to North and Central America, where it is still bred and hunted to this day. Hunting in its original, natural habitat is therefore of great importance to many mountain hunters.

My journey to Marrakech is very pleasant. I chose the Spanish Iberia as the airline. No problem with the gun carrying and the flight goes via Madrid to Marrakech. Rached is already waiting for me at Marrakech airport and helps me with the formalities and registering the gun with the airport police. After 40 minutes I’m already at my friend Renauld, who has his private property in Morocco, a little further out and to the south. Only 500 meters away is a comfortable hotel where our guests are accommodated upon their arrival. Right next to a reservoir with fantastic views of the Atlas Mountains. From his terrace, with this incredible view, we discuss the course of the next few days. There have been some shifts in the flight connections of our guests. Vladislav, who originally wanted to fly in with Turkish Airline, had to rebook and take the flight with Qatar Airways. Istanbul was temporarily closed due to heavy snowfall. Bela chose Air France for his flight, which flew in a day earlier. The plan was quickly made. Vladislav Reznik will try his luck hunting the Barbary wild boar for the first two days and will hunt near the orange plantations around Casablanca and Bela will be the first to hunt the Aoudad. The next morning we found out how changeable the weather is. Not much is left of the pleasantly warm 20 degrees from the day before. Rain and a cool 4 degrees await us in the morning. Ahead is a 2 ½ hour drive to the Tizi N Test Pass. According to the weather report, we should expect 10 to 15 centimeters of fresh snow there

Market

ridges for sheep. Shortly before 7 p.m. we break off and return to the pass. Except for a few female and a young ram, nothing was to be found. The restaurant also has a small, brick guest house where we will spend the night. After a good dinner and some good anecdotes from Bela and Renauld, we treat ourselves to a few hours of sleep before we continue the next morning. During the night it continued to snow and gave us another 15 centimeters of fresh snow. Dense fog, which also envelops the mountains below, does not allow a hunt and we just have to wait. Like yesterday, the fog only clears again in the afternoon and we try our luck again. In the last few days before the snowfall, forest workers have seen some Aoudad at work. Although the ascent to this position is not easy, Bela still wants to try. The first hundred meters of altitude can be managed quickly with the help of donkeys and mules, but after that the ascent becomes too dangerous with the help of our four-legged friends and we continue on foot. It is already 5 p.m. when we reach the place where the forest workers saw the sheep before the snowfall.

As with every mountain hunt, we start to search the terrain with binoculars and spotting scopes. As we prepare for our descent, barbary sheep suddenly appear out of nowhere. First there are two, a short time later there are already four and a few minutes later we have a group of twelve sheep in front of us. There is a ravine and a distance of 400 meters between us and the Barbary sheep on the opposite slope. Two ram stand out from the rest. The difference in size between the mane and the horns of these two and those of the rest of the group can be clearly seen. Unfortunately, we only have a short time to enjoy the sight of the sheep. Firing a shot is out of the question. It’s already too late and we have to hurry to reach the vehicle before sunset. The sight of the sheep and the fact that the weather forecast promises better weather for tomorrow makes us hope for the best tomorrow.

We go early to our bed room because tomorrow after breakfast we’ll be on our way to return to the same place of today. The weather in the morning is also much better. The clouds are still hanging low, but it is snowing only a little and the snow-free breaks are getting longer. Already at 10 a.m. we are at the place where we saw the sheep yesterday and today everything goes much faster. It is less than half an hour before the same group of yesterdays emerge again from the shelter of the oaks and cedars. For our part, we use this tree cover to stalk closer to the sheep. At 250 meters the time has come. Bela has a very good view of the strongest ram in the group and a good rifle rest. He uses my Steyr Tactical in caliber 300 WinMag and a Steiner scope with a ballistic turret.

The distance of 250 meters is set quickly and Bela unlocks the gun. Seconds later the shot breaks and the Aoudad breaks fatally hit in the shot. We wait a few more minutes and then make our way to the dead  ram. Now we can admire the harvest ram in detail. Even the renewed snowfall is ignored and Bela and the entire team are overjoyed. After a few memory photos, we make our way back. The snowfall has become heavier again and the well-being and health of our hunting guest has top priority. In the late afternoon we are back at our guest house. Vladislav and his companion Evgeny are already waiting there. Together with our friend Alexander, who guided both of them to the Barbary wild boar, all the experiences of the last few days are exchanged over dinner and it is already after midnight when we finally fall into our beds. Tired but satisfied.

The next day Alexander takes over our successful Aoudad hunter Bela and drives him back to Marrakech where Bela is now trying his luck on a wild boar. I’ll stay with Renauld and accompany Vladislav on his hunt for his Barbary Sheep. The weather has changed and the sky is almost cloudless. The Atlas Mountains show their different face and we look forward to the upcoming hunting day. Three people from Renauld’s have been out since the early hours of the morning and are scouting the area where we want to hunt today. While we were still having our breakfast, we received the message from the scouting team. A group of seven Aoudad was sighted. We get ready immediately and a few minutes later we are already in the car and on our way to the agreed meeting point. Our scouts are giving Renauld and myself a brief overview of the situation. After only 30 minutes of walking along a snow-covered forest path, we reach a small platform from where we can already see the sheep.

They are on the opposite slope, 600 meters away from us and about 150 meters above us. Together we think about how we can do the best stalk. Cover is plentiful, but the sometimes deep snowpack has its pitfalls. Our stalk begins when we first try to compensate for the difference in altitude. We need a little more than an hour until we are on the same level as the sheep, who don’t move much and let themselves be warmed up by the sun. After another 30 meters of altitude, we now continue our stalk horizontally. Again and again we stop and watch the sheep, which are now slightly below us. Some just remain and others pluck the leaves of the surrounding bushes. We manage to stalk them unnoticed up to a distance of 150 meters. From our location we have a very good overview of the whole group of Barbary sheep. It doesn’t take long for us to select the best ram. He stands alone on a rocky outcrop. It almost looks like he’s overseeing his little kingdom from his throne. Vladislav already has his sights set on him but for now he only shows himself from the front and Vladislav is waiting for his broadside. Moving does not appear to be one of his  forte and will test our patience. Finally the long-awaited turn to the right. Now Vladislav has the desired position of the Barbary sheep and he won’t let this chance go away and the shoot break. The ram immediately jumps a few meters further down the valley where he remains lying in the snow, fatally wounded. It’s almost devoutly quiet here.

No one says a word and all eyes are on the ram that has been harvest . It’s hard to describe the emotion of that moment, but the hunter’s wet eyes speak volumes. The first to break this silence is Isbar, the fox terrier from Renauld that always accompanies us. With his barking, he just wants to let us know: Let me finally go to the ram I’ve killed! Of course, not only he but also the shooter now wants to pay his last respects to the Aoudad. The rest is routine as always. A few trophy photos and then the descent and care of the ram that was killed.

Hunting for Aoudad in the High Atlas Mountains of Morocco is something very special. A very demanding mountain hunt in a wonderful landscape. With many new impressions, memories and emotions along with fantastic trophies in our luggage, we start our journey home and were able to convince ourselves again that ethical and controlled hunting is a major part for conservation of our wildlife.