One for the Road

Dec 6, 2023 | Hunting Stories, News

Elephant in the Okavango.  Botswana has one of the few remaining healthy elephant populations—healthy to the point of threatening their own well-being through habitat destruction.  Proper elephant management is difficult because of international opinion, made all the worse in the age of the Internet.

By Terry Wieland

 

Pachydermia

The fading symbol of Africa

 

To the wide world, the elephant is the symbol of Africa.  Hunters might hold out for the lion, and the greater kudu has it advocates, but ask the average person what animal he thinks of when you mention Africa and the answer will almost always be “the elephant.”

 

This fact is important when you consider the coverage given to game conservation generally by the mainstream media.  The mountain nyala may be seriously endangered, or the eastern bongo, or giant sable, but mention those to the average journalist—or, more to the point, the average editor—and you will likely get nothing more than a strange look.

 

Every couple of years, The Economist, London’s highly respected international news magazine, remembers the elephant and sends someone to take a look at its status.  One expects high quality journalism from The Economist, and usually gets it.  Its most recent articles on elephant are broadly excellent, but with one curious blind spot:  Nowhere that I can find do they mention legal trophy hunting, either as a means of raising revenue or controlling elephant numbers.  And nowhere do they credit hunting organizations such as Safari Club International for their efforts to save wildlife in general, and the elephant in particular.

 

The Economist’s writers, who are anonymous, seem to operate under the same biases that afflict journalists everywhere.  Certain subjects are taboo.  Saying anything good about big-game hunting is one such.  The corruption and venality of African politicians is another, especially if that politician was somehow connected with “freedom fighting.”

 

For example, in the 1970s, Jomo Kenyatta’s wife (one of them, at least) was acknowledged to be one of the biggest traffickers in illegal ivory in East Africa.  Was this ever mentioned in The Times when it wrote about the massive elephant slaughter that occurred back then?  Never, that I know of.  Kenyatta, one of the least admirable of all the immediate post-independence leaders, was given almost saintly status, and this particular wife enjoyed the same untouchable reputation.  I knew foreign correspondents in Nairobi back then who were well aware of the situation and filed stories about it, but these were invariably spiked or all references to Frau Kenyatta removed.

 

Twenty years ago, Gray’s Sporting Journal dispatched me to Africa with instructions to come back with an in-depth story on the status of the African elephant, which was widely believed to be seriously endangered.  Of course, it was not endangered in the least.  At the time, the numbers were estimated at about 750,000 remaining—a far cry from 2.5 million, or even the 1.5 million estimated in the 1970s, but still a long way from endangered.

 

Certainly, in some areas, notably Kenya, numbers were down drastically due to poaching, but in other areas, like Kwando in Botswana, elephant numbers were burgeoning to the point of serious habitat destruction.

 

I spent time with various elephant biologists, and all told the same story:  The major obstacle to any positive action on behalf of elephants was public misconceptions about the actual situation.  No question, the situation was dire, and probably terminal in some areas.  But in others, circumstances were totally different, and totally different actions were required—actions that were blocked by supposedly well-meaning people who thought they knew best.

 

The essential problem, I was told, lay in one fact.  In the mid-1800s, when Europeans began arriving in central Africa, they found islands of people in a sea of elephants.  Today, there are islands of elephants in a sea of people.  That’s fact number one.  Fact number two is that, historically, these vast numbers of elephants moved in continuous migrations, covering thousands of miles.

 

Fact number three is that elephants, all their admirable qualities aside, are intensely destructive animals.  They kill and uproot trees, devour vegetation, and generally devastate their environment.  As long as they were migrating, this was not a problem; quite the opposite, it was an essential part of regeneration, just like periodic veld fires.  Once they could no longer migrate, however, once they were confined to a particular area, the devastation became intense, not only to their detriment but to all the other animals, birds, and reptiles that called it home.

 

This is really an insuperable problem, since the expanding human settlements and infrastructure of Africa block migration routes, and this is almost certainly going to get worse.

 

Some do-gooder conservation groups look at this situation and suggest that the answer is to take elephants from where there are too many and relocate them to areas where there are too few.  This is an attractive proposition, especially when it conjures images presented in movies of a baby elephant in a sling beneath a helicopter, squealing with glee as it is transported to its new home.

 

First of all, where do you put them?  When elephants have been eradicated from an area, it is usually for a reason.  Either they threatened the human population or they were easily vulnerable to poaching.  Will those people want elephants returned?  Unlikely.  Would they be safe from poachers?  Unlikelier still.

 

As for relocating them in the first place, it’s a massive, expensive undertaking fraught with difficulties.  They need to be relocated in family groups.  They need to be transported in a sedated condition, in heavy vehicles, for long distances, over bad roads, with veterinarians in constant attendance, and even then they can only be sedated for short periods.  Intelligent elephants may be, but they don’t seem to accept the explanation that all of this is for their own good.

 

Ask the average person about legal hunting, or even culls, to reduce numbers, versus relocating surplus animals, and everyone will say they should be relocated.  When was the last time you saw an article in The Economist, The Times, or anywhere else, about the realities of relocation?

 

In its most recent article about African elephants, The Economist concluded that the causes of elephant poaching were poverty and bad governance and law enforcement.  No kidding.  Really?

 

In another Economist article several years ago, looking at the plight of elephants and rhinos in the Northern Frontier District of Kenya (the NFD, as it was known years ago), the writers concluded that the animals needed somehow to be given economic value in order to encourage the local tribes, like the Turkana, to protect rather than poach.

 

Nowhere in the article did they even mention legal sport hunting as a possible means of helping to do so.

 

Legal hunting has been a thing of the past in Kenya since 1977.  That is not going to change, and the idea that rich eco-tourists will want to visit the hostile environment of the NFD, and pay enough money to make it worthwhile, is a pipe dream.  Other Economist articles have stressed how dangerous it is to even approach the NFD, and it’s been closed to outsiders because of that, off and on, for years.

 

The advantages of having a legal hunting infrastructure are well known:  You have camps with armed men in them, you have regular patrols as hunting vehicles crisscross the territory, you provide permanent employment and a source of hard currency for the locals, and you give the game department more revenue with which to hire and pay game scouts.

 

The abolition of legal hunting in 1977, with the resulting elimination of all of these benefits in and around protected areas, was a major factor in the explosion of uninhibited poaching of elephants and rhinos in Kenya in the late ‘70s and ‘80s.  There was little to stop them.  Yet the hunting ban was widely applauded as a positive move toward game conservation when, in fact, it was the polar opposite.

 

The other advantage of having such a hunting community is that it gives it hunting a constituency, and a constituency has a voice in government.  No voice in government?  Then no one cares.

 

Would a big-game hunter pay big bucks to hunt elephants in the NFD?  Probably he would, but once you start looking at all the different aspects and difficulties of such an idea, the possibility is extremely remote.

 

In an area where tribes depend on cattle, where grass is scarce and water scarcer, trying to convince herdsmen to value elephants and rhinos over cattle and goats is a waste of time.  To my mind, probably the best use of the mountains of “save the elephant” donations held by the big wildlife funds would be straightforward bribes to the tribesmen, along with giving modern weapons and substantial salaries to the guards, and instituting a shoot-on-sight anti-poaching policy.

 

The alternative is having game scouts and guards who are outgunned by the poachers, who have no qualms about shooting anyone in uniform—or anyone else for that matter.

 

In today’s environment, the surest way to raise an outcry is to have some predominantly white organization try to tell a black government what it should do.  In between the black and the white lies the grey of the elephant, at the mercy of politics, political correctness, and irrevocable change.

Greywing Safari

Jan 22, 2019 | News

[vc_row][vc_column][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fwww.africanhuntinggazette.com%2Fspring-2019%2F%23spring-2019%2F120-121||target:%20_blank|”][vc_column_text]Greywing Safari By Ken Bailey

The Stormberg Mountain region is at once rugged yet welcoming. At a distance, the rolling, grass-carpeted hills are inviting, appearing gentle and serene. Three hours in to hiking them, however, I was discovering that their true identity was somewhat different. Up close and personal the terrain is rough and uneven, and while the landscape can accurately be called “breath-taking”, so, too, is the effort required to hike the uneven slopes. Of course, that’s the way it should be when you’re hunting greywing partridge; a toll must be paid to merit the privilege of hunting these legendary birds.

Greywing partridge have long been considered by knowledgeable wingshooters to rank in the highest echelons of upland bird hunting, spoken in the same sentences and with an equal reverence as the renowned red grouse of the Scottish highlands or the robust capercaille of Eurasia. Greywings are a high-altitude bird about the same size and similar in appearance to a Hungarian partridge, and are generally found in montane grassland habitats above 5000 feet. While relatively common wherever there’s suitable habitat, they’re rarely seen because of their naturally secretive nature and the fact that they occur in widely dispersed coveys in relatively remote, mountainous landscapes. Hunting greywing partridge is defined as much by their surroundings as by the hunt itself, and any greywing in hand is a prize well-earned.

Fortunately, I was hunting with Robbie Stretton, a fifth-generation owner of the exquisite colonial-style Buffels Fontein Lodge, south of Jamestown in South Africa’s Eastern Cape. Robbie is a rancher, game breeder, PH and lodge owner, but I suspect all that is simply a cover story that allows him to pursue his personal passion for hunting, particularly greywing partridge, over his beloved English pointers.

We’d arrived at Buffels Fontein early on a cool May evening after several days of high-volume dove and pigeon hunting near Bloemfontein. I was hunting with African Hunting Gazette publisher Richard Lendrum and long-time friends T.J. Schwanky and Vanessa Harrop, co-hosts of the popular television hunting show The Outdoor Quest. Over an eland dinner (and as veterans of African cuisine know, it simply doesn’t get any better than eland!), Robbie and his wife Angela related the history of their lodge and the surrounding countryside. The Stretton family first acquired the 11,000 hectare (27,000 acres) ranch in 1840. In the early days it served as a post office, a trading post and an inn, providing a welcome respite for travellers to rest their oxen, their horses and their own weary bodies along the strenuous route between the diamond and gold mines to the north and the docks along the Indian ocean to the south. These days the farm is home to sheep, cattle and an array of big game and game birds, and serves as home base for Robbie’s hunting operations. But the fascinating history of the lodge is well-preserved through the wonderful collection of antiques and the books and firearms that adorn the walls.

After a much-needed rest in the well-appointed guest rooms, our group reassembled for an early breakfast before heading afield. To the untrained eye, locating greywings in this vast, undulating landscape seems akin to finding the proverbial needle in a haystack, but Robbie knew with unfathomable clarity where we could expect to find coveys. He is careful about his management practices, insisting that hunters take only a small handful of birds from each of the far-spread coveys. It turned out that limiting our harvest wasn’t going to be an issue, though certainly not because of a lack of birds.

Through the cool morning hours we walked up and down the open hillsides, hunting between 6500 and 7000 feet above sea level. As is demanded of this pursuit, Robbie’s English pointers were fit and disciplined dogs that could hold a point until we were in position. Greywings have a tendency to fly downhill for long distances when flushed, so finding and reflushing scattered birds is an iffy proposition. If a dog flushes a covey at a distance it’s highly unlikely you’ll get a second crack at them, so well-trained dogs are a must.

Greywing coveys range from just a couple to as many as 30 birds, but most often number from five to ten. As it so happened, the first point of the morning was a pair, and at the flush the birds broke in separate directions. One exploded straight away before veering sharply left to take full advantage of the high winds that seem to be the norm in these hills. Astounded at how quickly it was getting out of range, I shouldered my gun and swung without thinking, holding just below the bird as it sailed down the grassy slope. At the report the bird tumbled into the grass, while to my right a quick pair of shots told me that T.J. was on the second bird. As it turned out he’d wing-tipped his and we were unable to recover it, but in short order mine was collected and I held it aloft triumphantly. As history now shows, my shooting prowess was short-lived.

Over the next three hours we traversed the hillsides under Robbie’s tutelage. He knew roughly where to expect the dogs to locate another covey, and more often than not he was right on the money. On some flushes only two or three birds would erupt from the grass; regularly it would be five to eight, and we put up one covey where 14 or 15 partridge rocketed out. In total we flushed 10 coveys totalling 84 birds. Our in-the-hand tally at morning’s end was a relatively meagre seven birds. Robbie advised that on most shoots gunners can expect to see in the region of 60 birds, with an anticipated bag of about 15, depending on the shooting ability of the hunters. While the dogs more than held up their end of the bargain, our numbers reveal that, clearly, T.J., Vanessa, Richard and I fell short of the targeted 25 per cent success rate.

Under the authority of editorial license, I feel compelled to offer a little defense of our less than stellar performance. To wit, we were shooting guns unfamiliar to us, (stunning F16 over/unders graciously on loan from Blaser) that were choked for the waterfowling and guinea fowl hunting we’d planned, when I would have preferred improved cylinder chokes, and the #5 loads we were flinging were probably not the best option; #8 shot would have been a better choice. Further, as I came to learn, as often as not you’re on rocky, uneven ground when a covey flushes (Murphy’s Law), so you’re seldom shooting from a stable position. Not to mention that the greywing partridge themselves, those taupe-clad little beauties, have a combination of natural flight skills and a game-to-the-core survival instinct that all but ensures their escape.

If I sound a little defensive, understand that it’s largely in jest. The fact is, we had a wonderful morning in an unbelievably pristine landscape pursuing one of the world’s premier game birds. How can that not be a rewarding experience? Whether we shot well or not is a relatively small part of the equation; it was the experience we were seeking.

At about noon we stopped for a well-earned lunch break and reflected on our morning. Someone’s Fitbit revealed we’d walked 15 kms (9.5 miles) since we’d left the trucks, so we enjoyed the cold drinks and sandwiches with unusual zeal. As advertised, we’d learned that greywing partridge hunting is not for the faint of heart; a reasonable level of fitness is a must, especially at these altitudes.

As we relaxed in the midday sun, a small covey of greywings flushed from cover on the steep hill above us. T.J., Robbie and I just looked at one another with knowing shrugs. So Robbie collected a couple of his pointers and up we went, at times having to climb hand over foot up the sharp incline. Eventually we got to the elevation and general vicinity of where we thought the birds had resettled, with the dogs’ no-nonsense attitude confirming there were birds close by. With every step I took care with my footing to ensure I was on stable ground should a partridge lift. That didn’t give due respect to our pointing companions, however, because in short order they had a bird locked down and when they flushed I was ready.

Three birds burst from beneath the thorny brush and I swung on the first as it flew straight away, paralleling the hillside. When the picture looked right I squeezed and the greywing dropped. Meanwhile, T.J. swung on a brace of birds, dropping one before the second disappeared safely over a crest. Two shots and two iconic greywing partridge in the hand.

Our doubleheader served as a spectacular finish to a hunt that will be etched in a special place in my memory reserved for only the most revered experiences. We’d been treated to a first-class experience in pursuit of one of the world’s great game birds, hunting up top in storied terrain, accompanied by fine people, fine dogs and fine shotguns. Sometimes I think I get more than I deserve. But I will go back, if for no other reason than to test that hypothesis.[/vc_column_text][vc_btn title=”View article in E-ZINE” color=”orange” align=”center” link=”url:https%3A%2F%2Fwww.africanhuntinggazette.com%2Fspring-2019%2F%23spring-2019%2F120-121||target:%20_blank|”][/vc_column][/vc_row][vc_row][vc_column][vc_gallery type=”image_grid” images=”19789,19790,19791,19792,19793,19794,19795″][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Zululand Monarch

Jun 22, 2016 | News

South Africa: 2014 Zululand Monarch By John Mattera

“All the really big elephants are gone.” How often do we hear that?

My day job is searching for shipwrecks of a bygone era, so I’m accustomed to skeptical forecasts of men who also tell me, “All the great shipwrecks have already been discovered.”

Truth be told, great hunters and explorers share a common attribute, without which you cannot be either: It is vision – the ability to see what life holds for you, past the doubts of all others. This may be my own definition of vision, but it’s better than most.

The time to hunt elephant is now. Like lost shipwrecks, men with vision still find them.

The trek would take us to KwaZulu-Natal, a province about the size of Maine comprising widely varying regions and terrains. The Natal Midlands are rolling hilly plateaus that rise toward the west where two mountainous regions, the Drakensberg and Northern Lebombo Mountains, climb high into the sky. A solid basalt wall rises to almost 10,000 feet and forms a natural barrier with Lesotho, and low ranges of ancient granite run southward from Swaziland. KwaZulu-Natal is also bordered by the Indian Ocean, where lowland subtropical vegetation hugs the coast. The area’s largest river, the Tugela, flows west to east across the center, bisecting the province. Perhaps the wildest region left in South Africa, Zululand is one of the great bastions of untamed spaces where giant elephant can still be found.

The golden age of elephant hunting may be the stuff of legend, but giant bulls were never common in this part of Africa during any era. Still, there may have been more worthy monarchs 100 ago than now, when the roads were less travelled or nonexistent, and hardship and deprivation were common. The “good old days” weren’t always as good as they sound!

There are very few bad days in a hunting camp. After all, it’s where we aspire to be with our innermost thoughts. Then there is elephant camp where, after coffee and a cold breakfast, you’re on the spoor of giants. This is about as good as it gets, for we are hunters.

Three of my favorite professional hunters – Charles Humphries, Randy Wesraadt and Drom Beukes – descended upon Zululand with American hunting client Dave Ratliff, who is in search of his date with destiny. This was not Dave’s first foray into elephant camp. In 2013 he’d spent 19 days looking for that elusive trophy; but Dave is not a hunter to settle. So unfilled tags gave rise to opportunities anew, and that’s where we were: early September, in KwaZulu-Natal, in search of big tuskers. It’s a story worth telling.

Every day on the trail of elephant, I envision my favorite “Far Side” cartoon from the Sunday papers: Two cavemen are in front of a dead woolly mammoth with a spear sticking from his side. One caveman says to the other, “Remember that spot!”

Elephant hunting is really no more complicated than that: Remember the spot to shoot them, so that they die quickly. But first you have to track them, find them, and sneak up on them, closing to within a stone’s throw of a giant who can destroy you with a casual swipe of its trunk.

If the tracker is good, the wind is right, and the cover is not too thick, you may get to “remember that spot,” testing your mettle against this great and worthy trophy to put that bullet where it needs to go.

Dave was carrying a CZ-USA 550 in .458 Lott with an appropriate charge of elephant medicine; it has already graced the pages of AHG as a tried and proven tool, ready for the hunt. The CZ-USA 550 is no stranger to the rifleman; in any of its variations, it has stood the test of time. Combined with a stout, dangerous-game caliber like the .458 Lott, it’s hard-pressed to beat. In fact, four CZ .458 Lott’s rounded out the five rifles in attendance. Randy was outnumbered if not outgunned, choosing his well-used .470 double rifle over the large capacity bolt-gun.

Much of the region we were hunting for the first few days was intermittent heavy brush, with areas of low scrub that had been burned down in the past. Through the sandy ash and dusty soft dirt, the footprints of giants had difficulty hiding from our two trackers.

As the first morning started, PH Charles Humphries led the column out on the spoor of three big bulls, with Dave right behind him. Humphries is a solid young PH, with chiseled good looks and affable boyish charm, vastly more accomplished than his years would attest. I’ve hunted with him in the past and have never been left wanting for knowledge or companionship. Seasoned PHs Wesraadt and Beukes took up the rear of the column.

By mid-afternoon we closed in on a big elephant just as we passed into the thick jesse. Dave and Charles slipped forward from one small tree to another, gaining ground as they went. As they closed in on a very respectable old bull, the PH steadied his binos and judged the trophy. It looked like a solid 50-pounder, but the bull was old, with a sunken head and weathered appearance, worn down by age and life. His skin, once bright grey, had taken on the fade of an old battleship, translucent hues reflecting in the late afternoon sun.

Charles set up the sticks, and Dave laid his CZ .458 Lott across them, snapped off the safety, and fought to catch his breath. A knowledgeable eye understood that the withered frame of the old elephant might exaggerate the size of the ivory, but still he was a grand trophy in anybody’s book. On the flip side of the same coin, this was early afternoon on Day One of a 14-day safari.

But Charles made the call – good judgment or youthful exuberance, only time would tell. “We’re going to let him pass – there is bigger out here!”

The look on Dave’s face said it all: he’d been two pounds down, with a pound of trigger to go on the trophy of a lifetime. The hooded iron post muted against dark earthen grey. It doesn’t get much closer!

The axiom of the realist hunter resounded through Dave’s mind: Don’t pass up on the first day what you would shoot on the last day.

But Charles Humphries is the kind of young man you instinctively trust, even with the dream of a lifetime.

Day One ended bone-tired and mile-worn. In the book of any hunter who’s pursued these behemoths with enthusiasm, elephant hunting goes down as hard work.

If the old adage holds true, that you have to walk a mile for every pound of ivory, we were well on our way after a sizable monster.

A good part of elephant hunting is luck. I also consider luck to be the residual effect of proper preparation. It’s much easier to be lucky when you are in the field doing what you are supposed to be doing.

As hunts go, most days in Africa’s game fields are great; and any day you stalk elephants is truly magnificent. The next six passed with tracking elephants every day, nothing like the first bull, but stalking-worthy elephants nonetheless. The PHs rotated, each taking turns as the stalks began to number into the double digits. Randy with his unflappable patient demeanor, Drom with his cheerful personality that transformed to a calm resolve in an instant as needed, tracking into the heavy vegetation only feet away from giants – and all the while Dave rose to the challenge, stalk after stalk.

There was one undisputable truth: In the short week-plus between the first bull and the last, Dave had garnered a whole bunch of elephant hunting knowledge, one mile at a time.

Just as Day 8 was coming to its midway point, the trackers came across huge tracks deep in the soft muddy sand, worn down at the heels and withered with age. The tracks of a massive bull! Our Zimbabwean tracker was on the trail at a brisk pace, closely followed by Charles, Dave, and the rest of the hunting assemblage.

One hour turned to two, and two to three. The temperature was cool, the hiking as comfortable as one could wish for as we pushed our way forward, when the tracker stopped and froze. Charles was the professional closest to the action, so he dropped down to his hands and knees for a short crawl and a better look.

His questioning gaze turned to one of animation when he realized what he was looking upon, after a glimpse through the coarse brush. We were stalking a giant! He signaled Dave forward, and they closed in on the majestic old bull.

Flashes of muted grey emerged from behind the painted green and brown of the vegetation, then the glint of ivory – big ivory appeared! Checking the wind, the game was on! In order to get a closer look at this old boy’s tusks without being detected, Dave dropped down to the dirt with Charles, and the two low-crawled through the vegetation. It was the test of a hunter – the test of patience and skill.

The bull was a monster, and the hunter and PH stalked closer to within full view. Youthful exuberance had just become seasoned professionalism!

They eased to their feet and Dave raised the CZ to his shoulder and settled into a solid position as Charles whispered into his ear. The old bull was facing straight on with his head up high. Charles wanted Dave to take a side chest shot, but they would have to wait for the bull to turn. After what seemed like an eternity the behemoth rolled to the side and exposed his heart.

“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” whispered Charles.

Dave was looking for that perfect shot, the shot of a lifetime, so it took the third iteration of the word shoot before he pressed the trigger. The thwap of a shot well connected echoed with authority. As the elephant took the bullet dead in the chest, he wheeled-turned and took off, gaining speed the whole time. Dave worked the bolt on the CZ and placed a second 500-grain projectile at the base of his tail, and the mighty elephant rocked violently. Momentum carried him forward though the heavy brush another 20 yards until he fell.

“Perfect shot!” yelled Charles as they ran through the mopane. We came up on him just the other side of the brush where he had crumpled. Down on all four knees with his head erect, his massive tusks resting on the ground – done, but not finished. Drom pulled Dave around, positioning him for a side brain shot, just behind the earhole to deliver the elephant home. Dave looked through the iron sights of the CZ 550 and pressed the trigger once again. The mighty old bull rocked back to the earth for the last time.

So many hunting days past fueled the passion that this day’s hunt had become – a lifetime in the field. For Dave, this monster bull completed his quest for Africa’s Big Five on maybe the highest note of his long hunting career.

Our professional hunters were all but speechless. There before them was proof positive of a job well done. This old boy would tip the scales on anything they had seen in years. While magnificent, the true trophy of this hunt wasn’t the size of the ivory, it was the legend of the day!

There are no more monster bulls in South Africa?

Leave the men without vision to their own opinions. My stalwart companions and I are elephant hunting!

John Mattera is a regular contributor to “African Hunting Gazette.”

20.3RSAElephantMattera 1950 words

Pull-Out quote “A good part of elephant hunting is luck. I also consider luck to be the residual effect of proper preparation. It’s much easier to be lucky when you are in the field doing what you are supposed to be doing.”