Page 9 – AHG

One for the Road

Mar 7, 2024 | Hunting Stories, News

A Masai homestead near the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania. The grass hut is perfect for the climate.

By Terry Wieland

A Tale of Three Buffalo

The things that stick with you

In Horn of the Hunter, Robert Ruark describes two Cape buffalo he took on his first safari, in 1951, in (then) Tanganyika with Harry Selby. The first was wounded and gave the pair a hell of a time until he finally succumbed. The second, which had much bigger and more massive horns, was also wounded, and disappeared into a dense thicket.

Selby and Ruark looked at each other, then sat down to smoke a cigarette. As the minutes wore on, Ruark became more and more anxious about what was to come. Then Selby invited him to accompany him as he went after the buffalo — a serious compliment as you know if you’ve ever been in that situation. Ruark steeled himself, checked his .470, and off they went. The tracking took some time. It probably seemed much longer than it was, but that’s the way these things work, as they crept along, expecting a charge at any second.

Finally, they came upon the buffalo, dead in its tracks, facing away. He had died as he fled, and not even contemplated a classic m’bogo ambush. Ruark noted that his horns were bigger, but “it’s the first one, the smaller one, that I have on my wall.”

Forty years later, I faced a similar situation on a two-part safari that began in Tanzania, hunting with Robin Hurt, and ended in Botwana, hunting with Tony Henley. In the first instance, Robin and I were waist-deep in the Moyowasi swamps when we came upon a herd of buffalo. I was carrying a .416 Weatherby, made a lucky shot, and a big bull went down and stayed down while the rest of the herd splashed off. It’s my only one-shot kill on a buffalo.

A week later, in the sand and thornbush around the Okavango, I wounded a bull with a shaky shot – he left, we waited, then we followed. Like Ruark, I was steeling my nerve, carrying the Weatherby like a quail gun, anticipating mayhem. Only it didn’t turn out that way. After half an hour, we spotted the bull’s hind end through the leaves. He was about 50 yards away, I anchored him with a shot at the base of his tail that smashed his spine, and I then finished him off at point-blank range with several more. He certainly didn’t die easily — adrenalized and angry Cape buffalo soak up lead like a sponge — but nor did he try to get even. I was either vastly relieved or greatly disappointed, depending on the state of my whisky intake, but honesty compels me to conclude it was mostly relief.

But, again like Ruark, there was a feeling of having been cheated of my moment to prove something.

Three years later, I found myself back in Tanzania, hooked up with a new safari company set up by an American and staffed by a couple of professional hunters from Zimbabwe — Gordon Cormack and Duff Gifford. Gordon is now dead, I’m told, and Duff is plying his trade somewhere in northern Australia. This was a new kind of safari in a country newly liberated from crackpot socialism and embracing free enterprise with joyous cries. There were safari camps that could be rented, on concessions that were eagerly snapped up by Arusha businessmen who couldn’t tell an elephant from an elevator.

Original Trophy Bonded Bear Claw, recovered from the buffalo. It entered the skull through the forehead & smashed through 18 inches of spine before being deflected down into the neck. The recovered bullet weighs 419 grains — 84% weight retention.

Wieland with his Mount Longido Cape buffalo. The rifle is a post- ‘64 Model 70 in .458 Winchester, loaded with 500-grain Trophy Bonded Bear Claws.

We decamped from Jerry’s ostrich-and-flower farm outside Arusha to a camp at the base of Mount Longido, put together a makeshift mountaineering expedition, and set out to climb. Longido is a long-extinct volcano which, I am told, in its heyday dwarfed Kilimanjaro. Now it’s worn down into a vast bowl with walls hundreds of feet high, a much higher promontory at one end covered in rain forest, with families of Masai occupying the huge crater.

Our expedition included Jerry, Duff, a game scout, the game scout’s two vassals (one to carry his rusty single-shot shotgun, the other to carry his briefcase) and several trackers and camp staff. We had no real camping equipment, but we were only going to be up there a day or, at most, two. I was carrying a borrowed Winchester Model 70 in .458, belonging to Jerry. My ammunition was his hot handloads using the then-new but always excellent Trophy Bonded Bear Claw bullets. Our other rifle was a .416 Rigby that belonged to Duff’s late father-in-law, Allan Lowe, who carryied it several years before when he was killed in Zimbabwe by an elephant.

We topped the outer wall, traversed the crater, and began a long climb up into the rain forest, where we set up camp.

The thinking was that the crater was known to hold some Cape buffalo, mainly old bulls who had left the herd, voluntarily or otherwise, and now dwelt up here in lonely splendor, contemplating past glories. Our job was to find one, which was not easy on the steep, rocky mountainsides, cut by dongas and overhung with thick brush.

After a miserable rainy night, we emerged to find our staff huddled around a fire, trying to ward off the shakes brought on by malaria and damp chill. Breakfast was cursory, to say the least, and since our colleagues showed no eagerness to leave the fire, Duff, Jerry and I took our rifles and binoculars and went to look for a vantage point from which to scan the mountainside. This was made more difficult by the early morning clouds that shrouded the peak, drifting in and out like thick fog.

I was perched on a rocky outcrop. Jerry and Duff were down the way, glassing the other direction. The clouds opened for an instant, just long enough to spot the tail end of a buffalo disappearing into some brush. Duff and I left Jerry on my look-out and descended into a long clearing, toward where I’d seen the bull. It had to be a bull, since there were no other buffalo up here. Duff was off to the right, checking some sign, when the bull appeared out of a thicket 75 yards away. I sat down and put the crosshairs behind his shoulder. At the shot, he made a dash and dropped from sight into a donga. Then all was still.

Duff and I crept toward where he’d disappeared. What we found was an odd situation. A thick canopy of brush turned the donga into a tunnel. A trail led down into it on the far side, where the bull had disappeared, then emerged from the brush to climb up on our side. Through the brush, we could hear the bull’s labored breathing. We found a place to stand with a dense thorn bush on one side and the donga’s steep side on the other — just room for both of us, but not for both to shoot, depending on where the bull appeared. He was not ten yards away, but invisible, and his breathing became harsher.

“We’ll give him ten minutes,” Duff said. “If he doesn’t come out, we’ll go in.”

We could hear the buffalo. The buffalo could hear us. At any time, he could get up and walk down his tunnel – which he surely knew intimately – completely unseen. He stayed put.

The minutes crawled by — seven, eight, nine — and at ten minutes, almost to the second, we heard the bull heave himself to his feet and begin to move. He burst out of the brush and up the trail. I fired one shot into his black hide, then a second as he turned sharply, rounding on me at a distance of a few feet. Duff was behind me, unable to shoot and no place to go. I shoved the last round into the chamber, stuck the muzzle in the bull’s face, and pulled the trigger just as I was jumping back, trying to get out of the way so Duff could shoot.

It was not necessary. The bull dropped, four feet away, and came to rest on the edge of the bank.

*****

African veterans reading this will, undoubtedly, have questions. Where was the game scout and our trackers? (Back by the fire, trying to keep warm.) Why did Duff not shoot when the bull first appeared? (Problems with his rifle, which I will try to explain in the ammunition column of this issue.) Where did your first bullet hit the buffalo? (Both lungs. He was slowly drowning in his own blood.)

It’s difficult to sum up my feelings about that bull, because he was so admirable. He could have escaped, yet he crouched there, facing back toward his trail, waiting for us to come in after him. As his lungs filled up and breathing became increasingly difficult, he came out of that donga with one thought, one plan, and that was vengeance.

We pieced it together later, from the tracks and the pool of blood. Having dashed into the donga after the first bullet, he left the trail, moved up the donga into a cul-de-sac, turned around and lay down, facing the trail — the only way we could get in. And there he waited as his time ran out.

For those who care about such things, his worn-down horns measured 43 inches, side to side. In his prime, they probably reached 48 inches. But that’s inconsequential.

These events took place almost 30 years ago now. The skull and horns disappeared in the dissolution of the safari company. No idea what happened to the rifle. I have a few photographs and one bullet, the Bear Claw that went between his eyes and tore up 18 inches of spine. One of the trackers dug it out for me as another was building a fire and putting chunks of the backstrap on sticks, to roast. It was like eating India rubber.

But that’s not what I remember most. What I remember is that buffalo’s valor, and how I came to love him.

Piece of Paradise Revived

Mar 7, 2024 | Hunting Stories

It was 1994 and I was a very eager and energetic young professional hunter, under the employ of a south African-based outfitter.

We were always eager to get “out” and into wilder areas in adjoining countries, places that seemed “unknown” and exotic to us.

When the late Phillip Nel, asked me to do some freelance hunts for him in Mozambique, it seemed too good to be true. Mozambique at that time was very exotic and unknown to me; Phillip managed to lease Coutada 10 from the Mozambique government, and was just establishing a hunting concession after the long civil war.

Phil Nel and Anton Marais were some of the pioneers in getting the Marameu region started up again, after the long and devastating civil war.

Phillip Nel had a base farm in South Africa, in the Soutpansberg, and that was where we met up to fly in their private plane to the area in Mozambique. Things were just different then, there were no commercial flights in and out of Beira. Officials were quite stand-offish and looked at us with suspicion and disdain, and when you presented a rifle for Import, you were a terrorist.

River crossing in 1994.

Buffalo from Mahimba in 1994.

I went to camp a few days before our hunters arrived; both were South African nationals, and really nice guys. I have lost contact with them and could not obtain their permission, so we decided to cover their faces in the photos attached, in order to respect their privacy.

I tried to familiarize myself with the area by asking my employer some questions about what to expect, but all I really got was, “We do not know the area very well ourselves, and also do not know what to expect.”

The main quarry was buffalo, but we could basically take anything that we found, if we found anything.

En route to the Marameu, we had to land at a place called Mahimba, just north of the Zambezi River, where I met a veteran hunter, Brian Smith.

Brian greeted us at the airstrip, extremely sunburnt, and wearing flipflop shoes. He never stopped complaining about the long grass… Later on I got to know Brian a lot better and reminisced about that first meeting, which he never remembered.

I arrived in camp in a very wild place; even the odd local villager we encountered seemed to not know much about European people.

The first few days I spent driving around with one of Phil’s local PHs getting to know the lie of the land and looking for buffalo with his client. It was evident that this was wild country and that hunting was real. Game was a bit scarce, but I was amazed by all the bushpig we saw almost daily, and in daytime, something I was not accustomed to.

There were a few sable, some reedbuck, waterbuck and of course buffalo deep inside the swamp, that required long stalks on hands and knees. In one of the buffalo photos you’ll notice the torn part on our client’s jeans – those pants were almost new when he started.

Lots of mosquitoes and hot sun was also just the order of the day.

After a few days of me scouting, my two hunters arrived, and I had my own Land Cruiser to go with and free range.

We basically just picked a direction, eastwards, towards the swamp and looked for the Egrets, “white birds that accompany large herds of animals,” I was told. Not much has changed even today, 29-odd years later.

The safari went extremely well. We got two good buffalo bulls early in the hunt and then just explored and hunted for plain game.

On one of the days, I was driving between the flood plain and forest, where it makes lots of smaller open areas when we spotted a lion running across our path and into some thickets.

Buffalo 1998

It was totally unexpected, and I did not know what else to do, other than to ask my hunter, “Do you want to shoot a lion?”

“How much is it?”

“I don’t know but you could always negotiate that later,” I told him.

Decision made and we went after the male. We spotted his eyes peeking at us from some long grass and thicker vegetation where he was crouched. I told my hunter to just shoot between the eyes, and voila! the lion was still. Just like that, no glory, no hero hunt.

Camp 1994

Camp 2023

We walked up to the magnificent cat and admired him. After a few seconds I realized he was still breathing and the breaths were becoming stronger, so the client shot him again in the chest which sealed the deal. On later inspection we found that his first shot went a bit high and the angle only stunned the lion. Things could have turned out very differently.

Up until then we had done much better than expected, I think a bit to the dismay of the resident PH. We were standing around our lion back at the skinning shed when the other party arrived back from their hunt. They spotted us and drove over to us.

The look on the resident PH’s face was something to behold. He just looked at me and said

“A f–king Lion.” That was it, no congratulations, no well done, no wtf.

That evening around the campfire was different, there were big congratulations. At the time there was an estimated 20 to 30 lions only.

Now we are in 2023 and I just completed another hunt in the Marameu, Coutada 11, managed by Zambezi Delta Safaris, Mark Haldane, and what a transformation.

Area 11 is by far my favorite area to hunt for the tiny guys. Red duiker, suni and blue duiker are so numerous that they are like a rat infestation. Not to mention the buffalo, reedbuck, hartebeest, sable – the list just goes on.

I recently read a article by Craig Boddington where he mentions the number of 3000 buffalo after the war, to the now 30 000. This all happened in a mere 25-odd years.

Hunting for plains game is almost like going to Walmart – they are numerous and bigger than elsewhere.

Seeing an area almost decimated return to what it is today, is such a nice success story, and the fact that it was done entirely through hunting and hunters makes it so much more sweet.

Hunting buffalo in Area 11 is pleasant, you can choose. Go into the swamp for a morning, or hunt for one on dry land in the forest, they are there.

Going into the swamp means getting into Zambezi Delta’s swamp vehicles, driving, floating or whatever you want to call it, deep into the formerly impenetrable regions, and look for the birds.

Once located, you load up and the crawl is on. Exhilarating but still fresh when you start.

Once you connect with a good bull, and you will, the swamp vehicle can get to you and load the whole carcass. No meat goes to waste, and you will return to camp mostly long before dark, to enjoy an ice-cold beer.

Buffalo 2023

Obviously, you have your harder days, but the numbers of game you will encounter en route in as well as out make all the aches and pains go away.

Even the lion numbers now have increased, and it is not unusual to encounter them more often. Their numbers are approaching 100 and rising fast. Cheetahs and elephant are all making a comeback.

I am in the very fortunate position to have seen the area then, and also now, something I cherish and love to share with other avid outdoorsmen.

Transport 2023

Waterbuck 2023

One for the Road

Feb 12, 2024 | News

A Masai homestead near the Great Rift Valley in Tanzania. The grass hut is perfect for the climate.

By Terry Wieland

A Good Night’s Sleep

Grass, mud, and (ugh!) corrugated iron

Fifty years ago, I found myself in the southern Sudan, in a small camp of Anyanya — the guerrillas who’d been battling Khartoum since the country’s independence in 1956. The camp was sparse: A dozen grass huts, a fire pit with some benches, and a communal table with more benches.

A friend and I had crossed illegally from Uganda after an odyssey, mostly on foot, that took us from the fleshpots of Kampala, to a refugee camp near the Mountains of the Moon, and then north across the Albert Nile to the tiny village of Lefori, west of Moyo. We carried with us a letter of introduction — a piece of notepaper with a few lines in splotchy ink — from one of the Bari tribesmen we met in the refugee camp, to an uncle or cousin or friend or something who lived in Lefori.

The note asked him to get us across the border so we could meet with the Anyanya, and I could gather information for a newspaper article. It would help the cause.

We were treated very well, very politely, although my camera was immediately confiscated. They put us up in a grass hut with two beds, also made of grass, one on each side of a pile of ashes where, obviously, a fire was built. It all began to make sense when, as the sun set, the temperature plunged. At 4,000 feet up (1220 metres), the plateau reached 90 F. (32 C.) during the day, but dropped to the 40s (5 C.) at night. As the communal fire burned low, the women who formed the camp staff took pails of coals into each of the grass huts, then dragged in some logs and set their ends on the coals, along with smaller branches.

I watched this with considerable trepidation, since in my experience nothing burns much better than dry grass, and the beds, walls, and roof were like tinder. We retired to our beds, which were shaped much like a gondola made of grass sheaves, tied together. The small branches caught and the flames leapt four feet in the air. Lying there, looking up at the roof in the dancing firelight, I saw some house lizards who’d gathered to enjoy the warmth. If they weren’t worried, why should I be?

We lived in that hut for the better part of two weeks, by which time we were so used to sleeping in a fire trap that we woke up in the night, groggily dragged the logs deeper into the flames, and went back to sleep without thinking. The hut was reasonably cozy at night, comfortably cool if you wanted to lie down during the heat of the day, pleasantly bright from the sunlight filtering through, and altogether absolutely ideal for the climate.

This was a stark contrast to the European-style shed we’d lived in during our stay at the refugee camp at Ibuga. It was the standard stucco-ed concrete with a tin roof, two iron bedsteads with bare springs, and a solid wooden door and shutters for the two windows. Either it was open to the elements — not wonderful there under the Ruwenzoris, where it rained every day promptly at three, and the deluge routinely carried off mangos and pawpaws if the vendors in the market did not get them up off the floor in time. So regular was the rain, there was an alarm that sounded at five minutes to three, to warn people. It could go from clear sky to black clouds to pouring rain in minutes.

At any rate, our hut at Ibuga was less than comfortable — cold at night, hot during the day, and either pitch-black or soaking wet in the rainy afternoon.

I think of those times whenever I talk with a missionary or aid-agency do-gooder intent on moving, for example, the Masai out of their customary mud-walled huts. I have also slept in a mud hut, and found it only slightly less delightful than my grass hut in the Sudan. And the Masai huts that I have been invited to enter — a great honor by the way — have put most suburban American dwellings to shame for being neat and meticulously kept. They have even included intriguing features like shelves around a pole, like a spiral staircase, made of a central pole and twigs to hold the mud together. The mud is then smoothed to an almost wax-like polish.

Hence, I have trouble keeping my temper when the do-gooders refer to “squalor” in traditional African dwellings. Granted, I‘ve seen some African townships outside the big cities, like Johannesburg or Nairobi, that were not everything a housing activist might desire, but that doesn’t mean they are all dreadful slums.

In 1992, I spent a couple of nights in a low-rent neighborhood on the edge of Francistown, in Botswana, in company with my Tswana professional hunter who parked me there while he visited one of the nine mistresses he kept stashed away around the country. The building I was in was constructed on the pattern of European houses, but the windows were all gone — just gaping holes in the plaster — and we dragged a table across the door to keep the wildlife at bay. A water tap on a pipe sticking up from the ground, two or three houses down, constituted the amenities.

In those days, I was known to take a drink now and then, and a bottle of Irish whiskey kept me company through the night. When Patrick finally returned, looking rather haggard, around mid-morning, some new friends and I were passing the bottle and discussing world affairs. I realized then that I could learn to live this way and be quite comfortable.

In fact, on reflection, all the memorably uncomfortable nights and days I’ve spent in Africa have been in conventional European houses, not in mud huts, grass huts, tents, lean-tos, or a sleeping bag under the stars. Wait a minute: The exceptions to that (it happened twice) involved a leaky tent on a mountainside in the rain with no bedding whatever, and the prospect of hunting Cape buffalo in the morning. And if ever one needed a good night’s sleep…

But those were the exception. In a past column, I wrote about tents and tented safaris in Africa, so I won’t repeat it here except to say that I’ve noticed a progression of ever-increasing discomfort as one moves farther and farther away from living the way our cave-dwelling ancestors did.

By “discomfort,” I don’t mean I would like to do without indoor toilets and running water, only that there is a psychological discomfort that comes from feeling closed in.

On various occasions, I’ve slept under the stars in Africa — in the Rift Valley, the Okavango, the Kalahari — and always found that when I moved back inside, even something as flimsy and open as a tent, it felt claustrophic and unnatural. Of course, you quickly get used to it again, but it shows just what an unnatural way of life it is.

The same thing happens with socks. I long ago abandoned long pants, socks, and boots in favour of shorts and bare feet in moccasins. After a couple of weeks of that, putting socks on again for the trip home feels very confining.

At various times in my life, when I’ve had the privilege of living like a millionaire even though I’m not, I’ve stayed in some extraordinarily luxurious accommodation, including the Plaza Hotel in New York, and the old Piccadilly Hotel (circa 1906) in London. The Norfolk in Nairobi’s no slouch, either.

While I have pleasant memories of those times, they don’t begin to compare with the nights I spent, looking up at the velvet sky above the Kalahari with the stars pressing close and getting bigger and closer the longer I looked at them.

Granted, such accommodation is not the best when the rains come, but for that I will happily take a grass hut like we had in the Sudan, lying by the fire on my bed of grass sheaves, and sipping hot water mixed, with scorched cane sugar, that we drank in place of tea. A volume of Hemingway — any volume, but preferably A Moveable Feast — and what else do you need?

My favorite memory of sleeping under the stars, or in a grass hut, or a wide-open tent? Feeling the breeze in the night. Of this simple ancient pleasure has modern life and air conditioning deprived us. It’s a memory to bring back from a safari that’s worth every bit as much as the finest set of horns.

***

Introducing the New Sauer 505 Bolt-Action Rifle

Feb 8, 2024 | Product News

The new Sauer 505 from J.P. Sauer and Sohn has a newly designed steel chassis, silky-smooth bolt cycling, and interchangeable, cold-hammer-forged precision barrels that allow for quick and easy caliber changes. Hunters can select between four pre-set trigger weights from 0.77 lbs. to up to 2.75 lbs.

The manual cocking system is safe, lightweight, quiet, and easy on the thumb. Once ready to shoot, simply apply slight pressure with your thumb to cock the rifle. Uncocking and unloading in the uncocked position is just as easy.

Sauer has adopted the Blaser saddle mount technology for optics mounting. This quick-detach mount is designed to ensure the unit can be taken off the Sauer 505 and put back on while maintaining the precise point of aim without having to re-zero the scope.

Available in four stock options – walnut (from wood grades 2 to 10), synthetic, synthetic thumbhole, or carbon fiber. The flush mounted detachable magazine features an integrated MagLock safety which prevents unwanted triggering of the magazine button. Rifle weights range from around 6 lbs. with the ultralight carbon fiber stock to heavier weight field options with magnum barrels.

Available in Summer 2024 in multiple calibers. For more information, visit: Sauer 505.

Sauer 505 Synchro XT

Sauer 505 Synchro XT

Rigby’s new ‘Bwabwata’ and ‘Luangwa’ knives offer the cutting-edge of craftsmanship

Feb 8, 2024 | Product News

London gunmaker John Rigby & Co. introduce two new knives to the Rigby Shikar Store – the Rigby ‘Bwabwata’ knife and the Rigby Damascus ‘Luangwa’ knife. Crafted in the UK by renowned custom knifemakers Emberleaf, these knives offer the perfect blend of tradition, craftsmanship, and functionality.

Rigby ‘Bwabwata’ Knife

The Rigby ‘Bwabwata’ slip-joint knife features a three-inch blade forged from AEB-L grade steel with a fully hardened mechanism. The handle is crafted from exhibition-grade desert ironwood, delivering both strength and striking aesthetics and comes housed in a leather sheath. The Rigby ‘double R’ logo adorns both the blade and sheath, creating an unmistakable symbol of quality and heritage.

Retail: £699

Rigby Damascus ‘Luangwa’ Knife

The Rigby Damascus ‘Luangwa’ Knife features a secure lock-back folding mechanism with a three-inch Damascus steel blade, proudly carrying the iconic Rigby ‘double R’ logo. The fully hardened AEB-L mechanism ensures optimal performance. The handle is crafted from a fine blue maple and it all comes secure in a durable leather sheath, stamped with the Rigby logo.

Retail: £810

Investing in the Rigby ‘Bwabwata’ and ‘Luangwa’ knives is not just about acquiring exquisite blades, but securing trusty companions for a lifetime of hunting adventures navigating the wild.

Please note that to maintain legal and safety standards, proof of age (18-years-old and over) will be required before shipping these items. The Rigby knives will be delivered via a specialised courier, ensuring secure and timely delivery.

The First Lion

Feb 6, 2024 | Hunting Stories, Uncategorized

He’s roaring fear,

You’re stupid if you’re not afraid,

He’s built to destroy,

That’s how he was made.

See the tail flicker,

A single black weave,

See his mane waver,

In that soft breeze.

Hear his call,

It shatters the quiet,

Hear that first note,

Of the bush’s wild riot.

Look at his steps,

Don’t step where he goes,

He owns this wilderness,

As anyone wise knows.

Fight not his anger,

Contain not his power,

Track with the wisdom,

Of a man’s final hour.

Rejoice not when he falls,

But pay the King respect,

Majesty never truly dies,

It is their spirit you can never get.

By Kendal-Ray Kaschula

It was around June or July when my first opportunity at a lion hunt came up. I was sixteen, wet behind the ears, and absolutely clueless as to what hunting lion would involve, but when the chance arose, I couldn’t have been quicker in grabbing my rifle.

The lion in question was hovering around one of the ranch’s sections, catching cattle and causing mayhem in general and so, with a PAC permit in tow, we hung a few baits in the hope that we could shoot by use of a blind, but wherever it had come from had left it with more intelligence than we could refute and so every bait was left untouched, despite its’ walking withing ten yards of each.

My father-who was my long-time hunting partner-and I were discussing maybe using a caller when a call came via the ranch’s radio network that it had killed another cow, and the carcass had been left with more than enough meat for it to return the following night.

So, without hesitation and sure that this was our shot, dad and I, along with a few workers from the property, went out at lunch time-with the intent that building a blind in the heat of the day would cause our scent to rise quicker, and hopefully be completely gone by nightfall-and proceeded to build said blind, way, way up in a mopane tree. Due to having only a few hours to erect our tree blind, I can’t say it was the safest, especially after hauling up not just ourselves, but also a large car battery to run the rheostat off of, should it be required. However, we held our ground until the early hours of the night, our ears pricked for any sound of crunching or yanking at the carcass which was sixty to seventy yards away and in full view of my .375 scope.

Generally, lions will return to a bait-and especially a kill-that they’ve been feeding on quite early, seeing as of all the cats they tend to be the least shy, but the same skill that prevented our particular lion from eating our baits also kept him away from his kill, but undoubtedly hiding nearby as we discovered the next day, when, after returning to the carcass, we found his large tracks trekking through the sand on top of our car tire marks from the night before. These we followed to about three or four yards off the carcass where he had stood, most likely sniffed around, and then turned and promptly walked back out.

With all our attempts so far a fail, we then went and found a clearing at the base of a Gomo (rocky hill) in the area where it was staying and opted for a caller as a large ditch effort.

Perched on the back of a cruiser, I held my .375, dad held a spotlight-even though the moon was full there were a few clouds drifting around-and Tracker stood behind me.

Unfortunately, the section we were on isn’t full of open spaces, and so even the small clearing we had managed to find only put us sixty yards from the caller and that was with it being backed into duiker berry bushes.

It was something to six in the evening when we started playing, going through distress calls and even a few hyena whoops, hoping to create the sounds of a freshly-made kill.

We called for nearly an hour, and after about thirty minutes my ears-being the youngest on the cruiser-picked up the sound of crunching leaves to my right.

“Dad,” I said, “I can hear it walking next to us.”

All three of us searched the brush surrounding us with keen eyes by use of the moonlight, not wanting to flick the spotlight on just yet and perhaps scare away the cat if he was nearby, but despite our best efforts, we couldn’t see a single thing.

After a few minutes the walking sounds faded off, and it was nearly seven when I got ready to tell Tracker to run fetch the speaker because we obviously weren’t having any luck, when suddenly, there it was.

He strode into the clearing like he didn’t even know the cruiser was there, though there was no way he could have missed it, and just kept walking across.

“It’s here,” I whispered, already leaning over the roof of the car and looking through my scope. I picked it up easy enough in the moonlight, so when dad flicked on the spotlight it was a second of silence before my shot rang out.

The lion let out a growl, jumping high in the air as it curled over before plummeting into the bush with a crash and a bang that was followed by immediate silence.

Now, I couldn’t tell you how I knew the shot wasn’t good, especially since I had put the shot right behind the shoulder, but I just had one of those feelings that a fellow hunter will understand. It wasn’t a good shot, and dad wasn’t keen on any of us tracking it in the dark, so home we came.

Luckily, another section of the ranch had a manager who was a fully qualified PH and his friend, another PH, was with him. So, dad gave them a call and early next morning out we go, and in the back of the cruiser is Tracker and my two up and coming hunting dogs-Remy and Charlie.

Technically, hounds are leopard dogs, but feline is feline and we needed all the help we could get. We got back to the paddock early morning, and after a bit of walking around the track was picked up by the PH’s trackers.

After a bit of grabbing guns and counting bullets, and, of course, one of the Professional Hunters having to convince my dad that he should let me join the tracking party because how else was I going to learn? We were off.

To begin with we left the hounds on the car with one guy, and the rest of us went in, detecting very quickly that the lion was wounded and bleeding out both sides.

We’d been tracking for about an hour, maybe more, through thick scrub, when Tracker pulled up the other trackers and pointed ahead, but whatever he saw was long gone. What he saw? My wounded lion. However, since they hadn’t seen it as well, the others were quick to tell him that it was nothing but a jackal and so we carried on, unaware that my wounded cat was up and moving just in front.

We followed it for a good three hours, the sun climbing higher, and despite the PH’s wishes for it to charge by us pushing it from behind, we either weren’t tracking fast enough to catch up, or it chose to just keep going, probably because it was a younger male and not confident enough to launch its own attack.

Eventually, it’s explained to them that if they want the hounds, then the hounds must be used because it was getting too hot for them to be able to work. Hounds struggle to work in the heat, and even though it was late winter, it was the Lowveld, and that was still far too hot, even at barely ten am.

A discussion arose at this statement, as some of the group were unsure about the dogs’ capabilities, and if it would therefore be worth the effort.

“They’ll catch,” I said, speaking up, “they’re my dogs and I trained them, and I know them. Remy will catch it one time.”

And so, it was decided.

We sent the trackers-my own among them-to fetch the dogs, while the rest of us waited under a tree. At that point we had lost the lion’s track which was part of the incentive of bringing in the hounds, but while we were waiting one of the Hunters had to answer a call of nature, and, as luck would have it, his bush of choice was right beside a fresh spot of blood. The lion had doubled back.

When the hounds got in, they were, as always, chomping at the bit-or yanking at the leashes, so to say-and no sooner did I lead Remy to the blood than her whole demeanor changed as she slipped into ‘tracking mode’ her nose clearly picking up the scent.

“Go track Remy,” I told her, unclipping the leash, and off she went, but she’d barely gone out before she came trotting back, hair up and nervous. She’d never hunted a lion before, but instincts told her that it wasn’t to be trifled with. Now, as crazy as this sounds, me and the hounds have an understanding and so, I spoke to her, dropping to my haunches and taking her face in my hands, petting her all over. “It’s okay Remy….go out. Go track.” And off she went, only to come back again, drawing some very interesting looks from the PH’s, but I did the same thing, sending her off once more, and that time, she never looked back.

The trackers started to track with her, but having to work around people always throws her out. “Can we hang back please?” I asked, “She needs space.”

In hardly any time at all she was well and truly off, blowing the life out of the track which is when Charlie was released, and not fifteen minutes later, they started singing.

They were baying the lion.

We all took off, me hugging the side of one PH, the other far in front, and my dad bringing up the back. “To protect our tail,” he said.

We could hear the lion grunting, the sound changing as it moved. The dogs were holding, then losing, then holding it, but they only moved twice, finally keeping it trapped on the top of an anthill.

I hugged the side of the PH who was in the middle of the chase, the other far ahead, and we were almost caught up when a shot rang out, splitting the ongoing sound of the dogs’ booing.

A minute later we pulled up beside the PH in front in time to find the lion swiping at the hounds, but the dogs were no fools and stayed far out of reach. The PH handed me his rifle and I fired again, though by then the cat was pretty much done, and down it went in a heap.

For a second there was only that beautiful silence that comes in the first few moments of a Dangerous Game Hunt when you all stand and evaluate with astonishment that no one has been hurt and the animal is down, and then, as though in sync, you all erupt into cheers and whoops and smiles which are coupled with handshakes and hugs, and you know-in that place deep inside where all the best memories live-that you will never forget this moment.

I ran to the hounds, elated at their success, while trackers swarmed, and the hunt, hounds-everything really-was celebrated as pictures were taken, a feat in their own right when it came to pulling in the dogs and trying to get them to keep still.

Eventually, we loaded up the lion-a younger male with a tank of a body-and adding the dogs and ourselves to the back of one of the cruisers, set off for home.

It was in a quiet moment, when it was just the two of us, that Tracker gave me another reason to laugh. He told me that when he had gone back to fetch the dogs with the other trackers, they had voiced their doubts to him-in no uncertain terms-about whether or not the hounds could even catch the lion.

“Please,” he’d scoffed, “they do it all the time.”

Only, me and him both knew they’d hardly done leopards by then.

“And what were you going to say if we failed?” I asked, choking on my laughter at his expression of defiance that anyone could have dared to pass something remotely like a criticism about our beloved hounds.

“We don’t think of that,” I was informed, that look still firmly in place despite my own laughter, “we just don’t think of that.”

Rangemaster CRF R: The ultimate compact laser rangefinder

Feb 6, 2024 | Product News, Uncategorized

Leica Sport Optics presents the third generation Leica Rangemaster CRF R, a compact monocular rangefinder that sets new standards in precision optics and laser technology. Designed for quick and reliable aiming, this compact device will cater to the unique needs of outdoor enthusiasts and hunters, by fusing innovation with practicality.

At its core is a blend of perfectly precise laser technology with the highest optical performance. Focusing on the essentials, it features an intuitive user interface for easy and rapid handling, all within a streamlined housing unit. These remarkable features position the Leica Rangemaster CRF R in a class of its own, elevating the rangefinding experience to unparalleled levels in precision and user-friendliness.

Fast, accurate measurements: The Leica CRF Rangemaster provides precise distance measurements within 0.3 seconds, with an accuracy of +/- 0.5 yards at distances ranging from 10 to 219 yards, making it perfect for bowhunters who require maximum precision at shorter ranges. The maximum range of the CRF R is 2,000 yards.

Compact and lightweight: Weighing in at around six ounces, it fits comfortably in your pocket or attaches to your belt via a lightweight Cordura pouch belt, ensuring ease of use even on the most strenuous expeditions.

Intuitive operation: Featuring a straightforward user interface with two easy-grip buttons, users can start measuring straight out of the box.

Superior optics: Leica’s precision optics deliver exceptional clarity, sharpness, and color fidelity, making it ideal for game identification. The wide field of view rivals that of binoculars. The massive reduction of stray light and reflections produces a crystal-clear image with finest details. Together with absolutely realistic colors, the optical performance of the Leica Rangemaster CRF R is best in class.

High-class laser: Offering speedy measurements within a fraction of a second, the Rangemaster CRF R ensures accuracy even in challenging conditions, such as rainy weather.

Reliable angle shots: The Leica Rangemaster CRF R displays the actual measured range or the equivalent horizontal range (EHR): everything hunters need for a reliable and ethical angle shot.

Sleek design: The new housing is compact, grippy, and easy to handle, made from a lightweight and durable polycarbonate ABS plastic designed for one-handed operation. The easy-to-read LED display is bright and clear under all conditions and automatically adjusts to ambient light.

Rigby unveiled new rifle at DSCC

Feb 6, 2024 | Product News

London gunmaker John Rigby & Co. introduced the Big Game Lightweight rifle to its Big Game series at the Dallas Safari Club (DSC) Convention 2024, held at the Kay Bailey Hutchison Convention Centre in Dallas, Texas, from Thursday 11 to Sunday 14 January.

The Big Game Lightweight extends Rigby’s range of Big Game rifles, joining the ranks of the Big Game and Big Game PH models. The lightweight model pays homage to the classic pre-war safari expedition rifles, being based on those models housed in the Rigby Museum.

Chambered in .350 Rigby Magnum, a classic caliber known for its stopping power and mild recoil, it is the ideal choice for hunting African plains game or North American big game. Built on a Mauser M98 magnum double square bridge action, the rifle features a three-position side safety and has capacity for holding five cartridges in the magazine box, plus one in the chamber.

The new slim profile 24-inch barrel is fitted with a barrel band with swivels for sling attachment. Express island style sights are fitted to the rifle, featuring a ramp front sight with an elevation-adjustable yellow bead and a rear sight with one fixed blade for 65 yards, plus two folding blades for 150 and 250 yards, complete with windage adjustments.

The stock profile has been reproduced to mirror the vintage pre-war models, with no cheek piece and larger hand-chequered panels. With a stock length of 14.5 inches and grade five wood as standard, customers can upgrade their stock up to grade nine before being oil-finished and fitted with a red rubber recoil pad.

The rifle’s finishing touches include a color case, hardened recoil bar and grip cap, while the new flat, slimmed profile magazine floorplate is engraved with the Rigby ‘double R’ logo. Each rifle is fitted with quick-detachable swing-off mounts, and weighs in at 4.260kg, 430grams less than the Rigby Big Game.

Leica Geovid Pro 32 rangefinding binoculars in olive-green

Feb 6, 2024 | Product News

German optics brand Leica has unveiled a new limited edition color option for its Geovid Pro 32 rangefinding binoculars, a field-ready olive-green.

The updated Geovid Pro 32 rangefinding binoculars, which are available in 8×32 and 10×32, were unveiled to the public in 2022 and combine optical quality and ballistic technology in a compact, slim design. Now, its available to American hunters in an, olive-green limited edition

With enhanced Bluetooth connectivity and integration with the new Leica Hunting App, the Geovid Pro 32 rangefinding binoculars are engineered to combine on-board atmospheric sensors with the latest Applied Ballistics technology. Standard with Applied Ballistics Ultralight, it offers easy upgrades to Applied Ballistics Sportsman or Elite for advanced capabilities.

The Geovid Pro 32 rangefinders feature GPS tracking connectivity thanks to Leica ProTrack. It stands as the first premium rangefinder to integrate GPS mapping through BaseMap and Google Maps

The patented “Perger-Porro” optics design ensures outstanding quality in light transmission, resolution, and a perfectly sharp edge-to-edge viewing experience.

Leica launches Calonox 2

Feb 6, 2024 | Product News

The new Leica Calonox 2 series of thermal optics redefines thermal imaging technology by combining high-performance, precision engineering and modularity with Leica’s advanced rangefinding capabilities. Both Calonox 2 Sight and View models have the option of an onboard laser rangefinder to increase ethicality and accuracy with this technology. The clip-on Calonox 2 Sight model offers a zeroing-free, plug-and-play solution that makes switching a thermal optic between rifle platforms very easy.

The Calonox 2 range of products are designed and manufactured in Germany, using exclusively European high-quality components.

Calonox 2 can be used during the day as well as in complete darkness. There is no longer a need for low levels of light or IR enhancers as the thermal sensor detects the slightest variation in temperature of an animal and its surroundings, offering distinct advantages when identifying naturally camouflaged wildlife during the day, or the darkest of nights.

The Calonox 2 range also incorporates an optional built-in laser rangefinder so hunters are able to increase the accuracy of their night hunting. Hunters already invested in a night hunting solution can add the Calonox 2 View (LRF) to their set up to add a thermal rangefinding solution and enhance their ethicality.

The modularity of the Calonox 2 Sight unit is unsurpassed when used as a clip-on to a traditional riflescope or as a Picatinny rail attachment in front of a riflescope. The precise placement of the sensor in relation to the objective lens and display screen has eliminated the need to recalibrate or re-zero. The resulting unlimited flexibility allows the Calonox 2 to be switched between multiple bolt guns, gas guns and even rimfire. Hunters no longer are limited to a single platform night hunting system.

Legal notice: When using thermal imaging technology, please observe the specific legislation for your State.

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