30 Days in Africa -- 56K warning!!!

[Neo]

Not sure if A-Zone has already posted his take on what happened during the course of our 30-day trip to Africa. If he has, this is my rebuttal. If he hasn't, then this will all have to be accepted as incontrovertible fact

The trip began in late May when we started off with an 8-day hunt with Pierre Moolman of Sun Africa Safaris. We had hunted with Pierre back in 2007, so in many ways this was hunt in familiar environs, with some new ones mixed in.

The hunt started in the coastal area near Port Elizabeth, looking for bushpig. Neither of us managed to connect on one (a curse that followed us for the entire trip), but the action picked up quickly.

First to go down was a nice male caracal (African lynx), which was pretty high on my wish list.

With such a fine start to the hunt, I was ready to ratchet up the challenge level, and the afternoon was spent just 3 km from the ocean hunting blue duiker in terrain that can only be described as "jungle". Little did I realize at the time that blue duiker never actually stop moving, and that shooting one on the move is rather like trying to shoot a flying bat. However, even a blind squirrel gets the occasional worm, and two shots of desperation from a borrowed shotgun had the surprising effect of actually killing a rather "large" male. This little fellow carried horns of a whopping 1-1/2" -- which sounds silly until one realizes that the minimum score for entry into the Rowland Ward record book is just 1/4" more than that.

Hmm... Here's a close up so you can see the horns. Well, maybe if you zoom in a bit

That wrapped up the coastal portion of the hunt, and we headed north into the Karoo region we had hunted in the past. Having taken many of the more common species when hunting there 4 years ago, the focus this time was on the species missed the first time around.

First up, on a day of drizzling rain, was a hunt for fallow deer and warthog. The latter went to ground, as they always do when the weather turns cold. But after a lot of slipping, slogging and just generally getting wet, a morning's hunt culminated in a long possibility on a group of nice fallow deer high above us and making for the crest of a low mountain. When they stopped for a moment to look back at us, the rangefinder said 320 yards, the 30/06 barked, and a very nice ram rolled down towards us.

It was great to have finally managed to connect with one. During the first trip, fallow deer hadn't factored very highly on my list due to my erroneous assumption that they had to be an "estate" animal in Africa. Not so -- introduced in the early 1800's, they've been running wild in the hills of various parts of South Africa for close to 200 years, and they've adapted quite well.

The next morning was overcast and still unseasonably wet, so we elected to keep to flatter ground and went looking for white and black springbuck. The white springbuck in the area are a bit unusual, in that they've developed a lighter, cream-colour in their horns that so far as I know occurs in no other part of South Africa. Often, springbuck are a fairly straightforward hunt, and this one certainly was. Glassing from the truck, the first herd we looked over produced the ram I wanted, and a short stalk and a single shot put him on the ground.

Thinking I was now the God of Springbuck hunting, it was time to look for a black one. We headed off to another ranch, one with an absolutely spectular view where the flat plains met the mountains. This was one of those places that you know you'll never forget walking across...

 

[Neo]

The reverie of all that scenery was broken when we spotted the first herd of black springbuck. Easy enough ... we'll just stalk over there and shoot one.

Right ... sure we will ... where the hell are they going and why are they running so fast? Ouch. OK, let's try this again. Follow them awhile, make a new plan, and try again.

And so went the afternoon. We walked, we stalked, we got busted, we walked, we stalked, we got busted, we ... well, you get the picture. When it finally all fell into place, I ... missed! I won't embarass myself publicly by admitting here how close the shot was, but suffice it to say that I had no business missing.

On the plus side, missing a standing springbuck immediately generates the opportunity to shoot a running one. Don't ask; I can explain it. That animal must have wanted to die, because it was no small feat to run into the bullets I was throwing at it. But somehow, it did.

The next morning, we headed off to one of my favourite places to hunt in the area -- the Asante Sana Game Reserve. The morning got off to a fun start when one of the critters high on my list (to my PH's shame, as he constantly reminded me) was a vervet monkey. Mercifully for him, I managed to spot a group of them early in the day, picked out the dominant male with his characteristically "blue balls" and filled this particular spot on my wall. PH's comment: "Good, now we can go hunting."

With that, we went on to see what we could find. Though we weren't having any luck so far with either warthog or bushpig, both were prime targets. But alas, pigs and I seem to never cross paths. That 2007 hunt had been entirely pig-less for me, and this one wasn't showing any signs of changing that. Everyone has their nemesis. Mine has tusks.

As we were making our way up one of the many valleys that run down into the reserve, one of the trackers spotted something feeding on a carcass on the far side of the ravine. Looking through binoculars, it turned out to be two warthogs and a jackal eating a dead wildebeest. Neither warthog was a trophy, but showing mercy on his pig-poor client, Pierre suggested that both of them were prime candidates for the table and that he didn't have any in the freezer. Happy to oblige him, I took a range reading, took another one to be sure, and got as solid as I could in a prone position with the rifle rested on my daypack. This was a shot to think long and hard about. Getting closer was in fact an obvious option, and in any normal case would have been the thing to do. But the terrain leading towards the quarry was sufficiently steep and broken that I knew the shooting positions along the way would be much less stable than what I had here. The decision made, the rifle and I waited until things looked about as good as they were ever going to and then we did our thing. In response, the pig fell over where it stood.

As I say, far from a trophy -- but hey, it was a pig, it was a tough shot, and it all ended well. I'll take that and go home happy any day!

After the work of getting the animal dressed and hauled back to a place we could get the truck, we drove down to the lowlands in search for other quarry. Of course, the way it often goes, the first thing we came across was a decent looking warthog -- one with actual tusks to speak of. Isn't that the way of things -- you break down and fill your tag with a small one, then the big boy shows up.

Wait a minute... THIS IS AFRICA! No tags, just trophy fees!!! A quick discussion confirmed that the "meat" pig was in fact on the house and that this one was the specimen we were meant to shoot. It stood there, rooting around in the sand on the far side of a dam. The range finder said 302 yards, which was better than the last one, and there was plenty of time time get set up into a solid prone position again. Same story, same ending.

This was turning out to be a red letter day. Who would be our next contestant? It didn't take long until we spotted a large band of baboons that made the very uncharacteristic mistake of only running a couple hundred yards after we bumped into them before stopping momentarily for a last look. It was a last look alright.

It had been quiite a day. In fact, it had been quite a hunt so far. I was hitting my groove. I was in the zone.

"It's time," I told Pierre, "Let's do it. Let's go get a vaal rhebuck."

All I heard him say was "Oh dear."

 

[Neo]

Now, you would think I might have remembered what he had told me back in 2007. Not knowing any better, I had asked Pierre during those 10 days of trying to hunt as many species as possible if we could fit in a vaal rhebuck somewhere.

"No."

No?

"No."

After some prodding, he sighed a bit, then composed himself with the look of forced patience that long-suffering high school teachers have worn for decades.

"You don't just 'fit in' a vaal rhebuck during a general species hunt. You book a hunt for vaal rhebuck, you hunt vaal rhebuck, and if you're damn lucky, you shoot at one."

You shoot AT one?

"Yes." There was that sigh again. "If you're like most clients lucky enough to get the chance, you shoot at one."

And that was that. The 10 days in 2007 were over in the blink of an eye, and a wonderful collection of trophies was in hand, but not a vaal rhebuck. We never even tried.

But that was then. This was now. And I was on fire.

Fast forward a few hours into the next morning. I was on fire alright. My legs were, at any rate. After driving three hours in the early morning to a vast, remote ranch near the tiny hamlet of Nieu Bethesda, we had started on the eerie moonscape far below. It was vast, empty, devoid of life -- somewhere between the moon and the most desolate part of Bolivia. That was the bottom. Where we were now was close to the top, about 6000 feet above sea level. Another 500 feet or so and we would be at the summit. But it was going to be a long 500 feet, in places sheer enough that I wanted to maintain 4 points of contact with solid surfaces rather than the usual 3. But that's where the little bastards were supposed to be. Up there on the top.

Despite my innate terror of heights, we made it up there. Just in time for us to see him and for him to see us. I can still watch it unfold in my mind's eye. He's turning to leave, the crosshairs swinging to catch up with him. It's a slam dunk, though -- he's not quite 100 yards away. This should be a walk in the park. And it would be -- if my legs weren't on fire, if I had been able to catch my breath, or if I had at least been able to get into a better position. Instead, I shot a couple inches over his back.

Lord, can those little buggers ever run fast! One moment he was right there, and the next he was hundreds of yards away and picking up speed.

"Never again," muttered Pierre, "will a vaal rhebuck that big ever let client a get that close."

That was when it sunk in. It has been so clear which animal was the ram because he had been such a good one. Probably an honest 8", which would have made the Rowland Ward minimum.

What I said then does not bear repeating here. But anyone who has hunted sheep and missed a full curl ram can probably do a credible job of filling in the blanks.

The rest of the day involved a long descent, a hike back to the truck, and a long, silent drive back to camp. As I mulled over the events of the day during that 3 hour drive, some kind of look must have come over my face, because Pierre suddenly offered up a few simple words.

"We'll get him tomorrow."

So there we were. Next day. Another 3 hour drive to the starting point. Another long climb up the same mountain.

We got to the top. We looked. He wasn't there.

But as we crept around the crest, scanning in every possible place below, we finally found him and his crew again. But he had seen us and was moving out. It was a longer shot this time -- a couple hundred yards, and he was starting to canter. I got as steady as I could, squeezed the trigger, and ...

missed.

Again.

Pierre said nothing at all. I was sufficiently vocal and colourful in my choice of words for both of us. What I said stays on that mountain. The only ones among you who might possibly be able to hazard a guess as to what it was would be those who have hunted sheep and missed TWO full curl rams on consecutive days. Truly, I hope that there is no one who fits that bill. If there is ... well, buddy, I feel for you. I really do.

And that was that. Time to begin the long descent yet again, then hike back to the truck. Then the long drive home. And all with the knowledge that this was it. My one (or rather, my second) chance at a "book" specimen of an animal that occurs nowhere else in the world, an animal I would most probably never have a chance to hunt again.

And you know what? Somewhere between the top of that mountain and the bottom, it started to dawn on me just how intense these two days had been. How hard I had tried, how close we had come, how much I had wanted it, how alive I had felt the entire time.

As we walked across the plains at the bottom of the mountain, I was lost in those very thoughts when I heard Pierre and the trackers yelling at me. As worn out as I was, I was lagging behind them by a couple hundred yards.

"Over there!!! On your left!! By that rock!!!"

 

[Neo]

There were rocks everywhere. How helpful.

Wait a minute... Right there... Look through the binoculars...

Oh my god.

No, it wasn't the one I had missed twice somehow waiting for us at the bottom. It was the one we had never seen before. The sire of all the big ones. And it wasn't looking at me at all, but rather at the lunatics who were yelling at me.

Quick -- range it!

330 yards.

Do
Not
F@#k
This
Up.

At 330 yards, it became very apparent very quickly just how small a vaal rhebuck really is. It's bigger than a coyote, but not by much. But it wasn't the distance or the size of the target that I was fighting, it was my self-confidence. Or whatever that ugly thing was that had firmly taken up residence in the place where my confidence had been living until recently.

Do
Not
F@#k
This
Up.

Please.

Bang.

Flop.

Flop? FLOP?!?! Oh sweet heaven, FLOP!!!!!!

The rest is still a foggy blur. The running towards the animal, the looks on the faces of PH and trackers alike. At first I thought they were simply relieved that I had mercifully connected. But they weren't looking at me at all. They were looking at those horns.

"Do you know what you just shot?" Pierre asked in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

"I've hunted here for more than 40 years, and I've never seen one this big. I've never even heard of one this big."

And so it was that we went home with a vaal rhebuck with horns just a few hairs under 10". The world record is 11 and change.

Those were two days I'll never, ever forget. Not because of what I shot, but because of what I lost at the top of that mountain, and what I found on the way back down.

 

[Neo]

And there you have it. The end of a magnificent hunt in South Africa. Any reasonable person would have called it a day and headed home to all those nagging responsibilities that had been left behind for awhile.

But who said anything about being reasonable?

Now it was time to say our goodbyes over a wonderful seafood dinner in the coastal city of Port Elizabeth, get on a plane, and fly to Victoria Falls in Zimbabwe.

The first order of business was seeing the Falls themselves. Just being there was a thrill, as it brought back memories of reading Selous' account as he wrote it in "A Hunter's Wanderings in Africa" over a century ago.

As it turned out, the water volume was at near-record levels, making for a very impressive but very misty view on the ground -- there was so much water in the air that visibility was reduced dramatically. The obvious solution to such a problem on the ground is to get up in the air, and a helicopter tour seemed a perfect solution!

In a word, "WOW!"

The next morning was reserved for a bit of fishing on the Zambezi River below the falls. I had always wanted to get my hands on a tiger fish, and this would be my chance.

As excited as I was to get a line in the water, I had to admit that the sunrise alone was worth the price of admission, and I found myself reaching for my camera before reaching for my rod.

Once the sun was up and the air was starting to warm, it was game on -- we were tiger hunting! And fortunately, it wasn't long before yet another long-held dream was finally fulfilled.

The morning passed all too-quickly. And soon it was time to say goodbye not only to the tiger fish and bream, but also to the many local denizens of the river we had bumped into along the way.

In retrospect, I truly wish I had booked a couple of additional days in Vic Falls -- the time on the river seemed just a teaser, and like fishermen everywhere I kept wondering what would happen if I had time for just one more cast. But there wasn't anything to be done -- it was time to get serious. The warm-up hunt in South Africa was over. The idle moments of fishing were over. It was time to get the main event underway!

Leopard and buffalo, here we come!

 

[Neo]

Since there are no commercial flights between cities inside Zimbabwe (yes, it that's messed up), getting to from Victoria Falls in the north to the Bubye Valley Conservancy (what used to be the Lemco area) in the south required an alternative means of travel. Enter host, PH and pilot extraordinaire: John Sharp. John was waiting as the boat pulled in off the water, and it was time to head to board his 43 year-old Piper Commanche and take to the skies for the 2-1/2 flight to the hunting area.

The flight was more than a little interesting. The changes in topography were fascinating, as was the running lecture John provided on the politics, economics and environmental ruin that has resulted from Mugabe's infamous land grab. Seeing the effects from the sky was sobering -- once lush farms now turned into ever-growing dustbowls, national park areas (such as Hwange, which we flew over) sprouting fires everywhere as the government ministers who have seized them allowed poachers to drive the game with flames. It wasn't until we reached the conservancy that everything suddenly changed -- no fires, no deserts, just endless miles of mopane and acacia forest.

As we came down in elevation in preparation for a landing approach, though, I quickly began to think there were too many trees. I mean, where the heck was the landing strip? That's when my heart stopped, as I realized that John was looking more than a little puzzled as his gaze jumped back and forth from his GPS to the ground below us. "Can you believe this? The concession manager gave me the wrong coordinates for the landing strip!"

Say what?

And here we are, with the sun near to setting. And nowhere to land.

In retrospect, it's a funny thing... I have a terrible fear of heights, but all of a sudden all I wanted to do was get that plane up higher and away from the ground!

Fortunately, while I was busy mentally sorting out my last wishes, John took a bearing on the distant mountain where the conservancy headquarters is based and calmly made his way towards what he knew would be one or more landing options along the way. We hadn't been at it long when the elusive landing strip finally appeared. Never, no never, have I been so happy to return to terra firma!

Here's the few from the ground once we got there. I made a mental note to avoid ever leaving it again.

After a wonderfully warm reception by the entire camp crew, we enjoyed drinks, dinner and all manner of anticipatory conversation. A few short hours of sleep later, and it was time to sight in the rifles and start hunting. Not having hunted the area before, I had tried to make sure to keep my expectations modest and to demonstrate plenty of patience as the first day of hunting unfolded. As it turns out, there was no need...

By the time we had been at it for 3 hours, we had seen well over 100 head of game. Impala, wildebeest, zebra and giraffe were the most plentiful species, but here and there we spotted others as well, including a few very nice sable (which, sadly, were not on the list for this trip). This was starting to look promising.

And then it just looked big. And menacing.

And there you go. Just 3 hours into a 15-day hunt, and there's one of the two main trophies looking right at you from about 40 yards away. A nice hard boss, good tips and curl, and the greying face of a dagga boy of advancing years.

"He might go 38 inches or a bit more. He's a nice one," John whispered, "But what do you do now?"

I glanced at his face for a second and saw the perplexed smile.

"Your call. He's shootable, for sure. But do you want to do it like this? So soon in the hunt?"

As I looked at that bull through the crosshairs of the scope, a lot of things went through my mind. But even I was surprised when my hands decided to lower the rifle and let him walk away.

As the bull disappeared, I heard laughter from the trackers and the game scout as they shook their heads. I looked at John for an explanation, and he was smiling too. "They're wondering if you're going to end up regretting that."

I'll confess to a few nagging doubts over the next hour or so, but I quickly got over it. Whether or not we found another bull quite like that one, there would certainly be more buffalo hunting over the days ahead. And how could that be the wrong thing?

 

[Neo]

The rest of the day was spent trying to get a zebra for leopard bait. The wind wasn't helping a bit -- every one of the stalks we put on them was foiled by either swirling wind, other animals, or both. John was insistent, though, that only a zebra be used for bait -- call it a personal preference he had built up over the years after a lifetime of cat hunting. And given his remarkable record over the last 3 decades, I wasn't going to argue.
The day drew to an end without a zebra in hand. Drat! It felt like we had lost a day from the hunt entirely, as I had really wanted to get some leopard baits up as quickly as possible. But with the sun beginning to near the horizon, it was time to start planning for the next day's hunt.
Or was it?
The trackers had all frozen in mid-step and were staring off into the mopane trees and brush. Following their gaze, I eventually saw it too. It was big. Really big.
"Here we go again," whispered John. "First day and all."
There was no mistaking that this was an exceptional buffalo. He was older than the previous bull, with more grey than black in his face. He had a good boss. And while he lacked that classic curve in the tips, which were quite worn down with a lifetime of use, he still had one remarkable thing -- width, and plenty of it.
"Tough decision," John murmurred. "This time, you can't assume you'll find a better one before the hunt's over. You might. You might not."
We got a long hard look at him. I knew that he wasn't the buffalo I had always imagined, that mythical old bull with the perfectly-shaped horns of a youthful one married to the boss of an ancient one. But now that I was actually looking at a truly ancient bull, I was beginning to understand the enormous attraction to hunting an OLD dagga boy. This guy had seen it all, and then some, and by his confident swagger there wasn't much left in this world that scared him.
When he turned to face us, though, I knew ... even before John whispered "He's over 40. About 41, maybe 42." Good lord, he's right on the edge of making the record book.
Without looking away from those massive horns, I softly breathed three short words: "That's my buffalo."
"Alright then," John replied, "Follow me."
By the time we got into position and readied for a shot, the bull had become aware of us and was no longer broadside, but was rather sharply quartering towards us at about 80 yards. John made sure I knew where he wanted to bullet to go, and I was sure I had sent it there as the .375 H&H roared. But apparently I hadn't, because the buff was gone.
Madly, we all sprinted forward before one of the trackers froze and pointed. There he was about 100 yards away, a black shape in the failing light, behind a light screen of brush. "He's hit, but he's still standing. Get a shot into him if you can," was the command.
I did my best to find a hole in the mopane limbs that covered most of him, and touched off another round propelling 300 grain A-Frame bullet towards his chest. The resounding "SMACK!" that echoed back told me my aim was true.
And then he was gone. Again.
!@#$
With the brush getting thicker now, and the light getting poorer, we advanced more slowly this time. After several minutes, the bull was spotted again, and I moved into position. But suddenly the game scout hissed and pointed. Another black shape to the right. And another to the right of that. CRAP!!! It's a group of dagga boys we're into.

 

[Neo]

Now it was an entirely new game. We couldn't see any of the three bulls clearly enough to know which was which. So we stalked, to a couple of different vantage points trying to get a clearer view of things. Finally, we came across a small mound of dirt and granite and waited as the game scout climbed up and peered from the top. After a few seconds he waived up one of the trackers. And then the second tracker. They shared hushed whispers in Shona, and then signalled John to join them. More whispers. Then they all came back down towards me and John looked me straight in the eye.
"You can do this."
Do what?!?
"But you have to be absolutely sure. We know which one he is. You've hit him, but you missed his heart. Probably a couple hits high in the lungs. That might kill him, but not right now. And we're almost out of light."
His hand clenched my shoulder. "You can do this."
I moved towards the mound, but John's hand held me back.
"Take as much time as you need. You have to be sure. Only you know what it looks like in the scope."
OK, right, fine. Let's get on with this.
And that's when John spelled it out for me. He pointed at the center of his forehead, between his eyes and about an inch above the bridge of his nose. "You have to put it here -- EXACTLY here. Dead centre, about 2 inches below the bottom of the boss. If you don't, this is going to get really messy. Better to leave him as he is and try for him tomorrow than to mess up on a head shot. If we walk away now he might not go too far. But smack him in the face without killing him, and he'll go forever."
OK, between the eyes. Got it.
This time, as I moved towards the rise, John moved with me, and when I reached the crest he already had the shooting sticks set up and waiting. I eased the rifle onto them, and quickly scanned the nearby brush for our boy. But where was he?
Oh sh!t.
That's him in those trees. Or at least, that's his head and neck. He's looking right at us. And he's well over 100 yards away.
Between the eyes?!?!
A couple seconds later, all I was aware of was the movement of the crosshairs. Way too much movement. Then the movement of the buffalo itself, as it raised its head to test the wind and slowly moved its muzzle from side to side. John was wrong, I couldn't do this. It was too far to be trying to shoot a coin-sized target from a standing position. We'll have to try to find him tomorrow.
But I kept watching him all the same. Everything else in the world had disappeared. There was just that buffalo glaring balefully back at me over the top of its upraised nostrils, every detail so clear, each patch of grey, the malice in his eyes, the crosshairs so solidly planted right between his ...
BANG!
Time stopped. I was already praying to know the outcome before bullet could possibly have arrived. Nothing happened. Nothing moved. Everything was frozen in that tiny fraction of a second that seemed an eternity.
And then I saw his back half fall away as his head snapped upwards, backwards, and then followed the rest of his body to the ground.
And then, after all that, my knees went weak.
The shot had landed a bit lower than it was supposed to, but not by much, and the Hornady solid that narrowly missed the brain went on to break the neck, and the deed was finally done. Or almost. It took two more shots at close range before we heard the death bellow and saw the old warrior's withering glare replaced by a look of weariness and peace.
I stood there, speechless, standing on the shoulders of giants. I thought of Selous, Roosevelt, Hemingway, Hunter, Ruarke and all the rest. And for just the briefest of moments, I was among them.
He was 41 inches, he was ancient, and he was mine.

 

[Neo]

Now that's an interesting position to be in -- to have a wonderful buffalo in the salt on the first day of a 15 day hunt! What a wonderful appetizer to the main event -- now we had 14 days to focus on getting a leopard!
The next six days were spent collecting a couple zebra for bait, as well as taking advantage of the odd opportunity that showed up at the right place and the right time so as not to take too much time away from scouting for leopard and checking baits.
First off was a much needed bait.

Then a 14-1/2" warthog that finally brought my pig challenges to a magnificent end.

Then toss in a giraffe for good measure. And for what it's worth, don't let anyone ever tell you that the giraffe isn't a sporting animal. Getting one to play ball and cooperate by dying is not altogether a straightforward endeavour.

No matter how you slize it, a giraffe is a massive animal, and it's amazing how tough they are on a bullet. Of course, the dense, rubber-like skin being well over 1" thick doesn't make it any easier.

Toss in a 29-1/4" blue wildebeest...

And a representative impala for camp meat...

And then a close encounter or two with some of the local residents...

And you have a pretty fantastic experience!
But wait just a moment... What about that leopard?
Indeed, what about that leopard? As in, what leopard?
As those days passed, our baits were having a tough time. They were getting chewed on by honeybadgers, bush pigs, warthogs, brown hyenas, and just about everything else that wasn't a leopard. On day 5 we finally had a hit, but the track said that it was small female.
And then it happened. Day 6. And this time, it was a male. Two of them, according to the trackers, one larger than the other. But there was some debate if the larger of the pair was large enough. While my choice would have been to wait in the blind and let my eyes decide, John was insistent that we would be better off setting up a trail cam and trying to get some pictures first. In retrospect, I came to appreciate this appoach -- because once you're in that blind and a leopard comes in, things just seem to happen way too fast.
But I get ahead of myself...

 

[Neo]

The next morning, the tale of that bait began to unfold as we sorted through the pictures on the trail cam.
Yes, there was a young leopard feeding...

And bushpigs...

And brown hyena (a highly protected and generally endangered member of the hyena clan)...

And another leopard that was starting to look rather interesting...

But was he good enough? It would take a few more pictures to be sure...
Oh, now, wait a minute...

That's looking pretty...

...pretty damn good!!!!

Yes, indeed, this is him. I had always told myself that I would know him when I saw him. And I did. He wasn't one of the Malangani monsters this area is known to produce on occassion. But he still looked to be a large male by anyone's standards, and when we zoomed in on the photo, we could see the numerous facial scars and the ragged ear tips. He was an old one, and he was a scrapper who had long been used to defending what was his.
Thirty five years. That's how long it had been since a young lad of 10 had sat down with the August, 1976 issue of Outdoor Life and made the decision after reading it that before he died, he wanted to hunt a grizzly, a leopard, and a lion.
Two years ago, he shot a grizzly in the shadow of Mount McKinley. Now it was time to try for the leopard.
As the day progressed, we built a blind, prepared a shooting lane, tended the other baits, got some rest, and pretended that today was just a day like any other. But it wasn't. Not for the trackers. Not for John. And most certainly not for that 10 year old boy in a 45 year old body. This was it. Savour every moment, every hope, every fear. Live each second of this. This is your dream. And there aren't going to be any dress rehearsals.
By 4:30 PM, we were in the blind. Darkness would come a few moments before 6:00. We would stay until he came in or the sun came up. The first night sitting on a leopard bait is the best chance you'll ever get. And this was the one chance we had.
In this part of Zimbabwe, there is a 100+ year tradition of cattle ranching in the surrounding area, and as a result the leopard population has been persecuted for generations. Genetically, the area produces the largest cats on the continent. But they're also notoriously nocturnal. On the entire 1 million acre conservancy, John told me that in the past 18 years only two leopard had been shot during natural light. All of the rest (close to 400 in total during that time) where shot in darkness with the aid of a light. It's both legal and the only practical option -- the leopard here simply don't expose themselves during the day. So as we sat there in silence as still as statues, we quietly waited for darkness to come so that the hunt could begin.
Darkness would be here soon, now. It was deep twilight. Not yet black, but everything was fading into obscure shadow. It was those last two minutes of legal shooting light back home -- the ones that are technically legal, but often too dark to allow a certain shot. Soon it would be dark. Soon, if we were lucky, he might ...
I felt John's hand on my leg.
WHAT?!?!
That was the signal. It meant I was supposed to lean into my rifle, and look through the crosshairs. The blind had been set up in such a way that the scope would be my only window. John was looking through his binoculars, which had been woven into the wall of the blind. Could it be? Before total darkness had set in?
I leaned forward, but instantly stopped as John squeezed my leg so hard it hurt. We had never discussed that as a possible signal, but I instantly understood. The leopard was studying the blind.
Seconds past. Several seconds. Perhaps a minute.
John stopped squeezing, letting go of my leg altogether. Then he touched it gently again. Resume the plan, lean forward, look through the scope.
Soft as a summer breeze, the words drifted into my ear. "Can you see him?"
"Yes."
"It's not dark enough for the light. But it's too dark to see. Are you sure? Can you see him?"

 

[Neo]

I could see him. Or at least the ghost of him. He was a blur, a pale shape merely suggestive of a leopard reaching up for the bait. But he was was there. I wouldn't have been certain using my eyes alone, but a 30mm tube, 50mm objective, Leupold coatings and an illuminated reticle all told me to trust myself. I could see him well enough, for now. Another minute or two, and perhaps not. But right now, this second, I could.
"Yes. I see him."
"Then sh..."
BOOM!
Silence. The sound of running -- 2, perhaps 3 bounds.
Then nothing.
No crash.
No groan.
Not even growling.
Nothing.
My stomach, then my entire body, just seemed to twist into a knot.
Thirty five years. Thousands of miles. Thousands of dollars. And one single chance. Had I hit it? Had I killed it?
Had I ... missed?
So many second guesses played through my mind. Why, oh why, had the chance come in that horrible twilight, when visibility was so poor but a light was of no use? Why hadn't I decided to wait a few moments until the light could have been used?
We waited in silence for a few moments, John clearly as worried as I was over the lack of any sounds that suggested death. "Alright then," he said. He turned on the radio and spoke a few words of Fanagalo, and a few moments later I could hear the trackers driving the Land Rover towards us.
When the truck arrived, we all assembled in front the blind, and slowly scanned the forest ahead. John was looking increasingly concerned, and so did two of the trackers who both observed that they had heard nothing die from where they had been stationed. But the lead tracker, Isaac, looked at me and asked very pointedly, "How was the shot?"
It was a simple question, and really there was only one answer.
"It was good."
"Then," said Isaac, "he is dead."
It was dark now, truly dark, in the way that only Africa moves so quickly from day to night. Flashlights and headlamps came out. But how little they seemed to illuminate, how much they left hidden.
Despite Isaac's faith, we moved an inch at a time as we approached the bait. No hair. No blood. We kept looking. Still, nothing. Just the tall, meter high grass immediately ahead of us.
With fingers on triggers and safeties off, we all took a step into the grass. I don't think anyone was breathing.
Another step. Scanning. Scanning. Another step. Scan. Another.
It must have taken 20 minutes to cover the first 10 yards. Another 20 to cover the next 10. No blood. No hair.
And then we saw it. A mound of pale yellow, covered in black rosettes.
Dead.

Posing for pictures. Feeling numb. Then euphoric. Sober, almost sad. A lot of things run through your mind when a cherished dream suddenly arrives, plays out, and then is over. Part of you dies, because a huge part of your life just played out before your eyes, suddenly jumping from your future to your past. In the blink of an eye, you've aged a hundred years. You reach down, run your hands over his head, and almost find yourself choking down tears. Yet your heart soars. All of those emotions, and they take just seconds. You're absolutely living in the moment.
Time gradually becomes something normal again, and you become aware that you're not alone. There's cheering and singing, everyone beaming at you. You feel something being pressed into your hand and realize that it's a glass filled with something smelling of peat and smoke.
"There's not much single malt left in this country," John says, "but moments like this demand respect."
And so we drank our whisky. John watching me watching the leopard. Until our glasses were empty, and I felt his hand on my shoulder.
"He's yours now."
"Then I want to carry him," I said. And I did.

When we got back to camp some time later, the trumpeting of our horn had the staff beaming, singing and dancing as we arrived. This was a leopard, after all. This was special.

More drinks, more congratulations, more words to try to express the story of it all. Then it was time for a few last poses. Time to weigh him, skin him, and pour one last drink.
And then, lying in bed, to realize that it was now all just a memory.
It took awhile, but I finally fell asleep sometime after midnight. Just in time to be awakened by the sound of 3 rifle shots close to camp, followed by the sound of singing, then the beeping of a horn, and the sound of a Land Rover roaring into camp.
What?!?!
It was A-Zone and his crew. Another leopard, the same night!!! And this one, as it turns out, was destined to score #27 in the SCI record book. But alas, that part of the tale is not mine to tell...

 

[Neo]

How odd it felt the next morning. We had completed just 8 days of a 15 day hunt, and both the buff and the leopard were in the salt. What was a guy supposed to do for the next 7 days?
Thank goodness for a long list of available plains game and small predators! Those seven days were spent hunting just as hard as the first eight, although the pressure was now gone. It was hunting purely for the love of being out there doing it. And there was lots to do...
Another giraffe...

Another impala...

A record book klipspringer...

A honey badger...

A baboon...

A civet cat...

My biggest kudu to date...

And then the most amazing surprise of all -- an absolutely spectacular Chobe bushbuck measuring 17-5/8", just 7/8" shy of the world record. It's hard to imagine every taking a better trophy of any species, no matter how much hunting I manage to do in the years ahead.

And then, all too quickly, it was over. A month of my life had come and gone. It was a month well lived, a month absolutely crammed full of memories that will be with me for the rest of my days. But the sun was setting on this trip, and it was time to pack my bags and prepare for the long journey home. And to start planning and saving for a return trip. Next time, lion!

 

[Vimy Ridge]

Wow, great photos. Trip of a lifetime!

 

[Jwirecom109]

Amazing!! thanks my Kid loved the pictures as much as i did

 

[Ridge_Fridge]

Did you leave any animals alive for anyone else?

 

[arancio]

Did you EAT what you killed ??

 

[NWO]

AWESOME

I was in the blind with you on the cat hunt you told the story so well !

I also love the baboon and monkey, I would love to hunt them.

Honey badger will make interesting mount... kinda reminds me of a wolverine!

GREAT PICTURES and STORIES... THX A LOT

 

[Neo]

Did you EAT what you killed ??

We ate wild game pretty much every night on this trip, as one would expect. The more meaningful answer to your question is that every last bit of those animals was consumed or put to use by someone. In truth, the level of utilization in Africa puts North American hunters to shame. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, gets left in the bush. Intestines, stomach, internal organs, even the feet -- it all gets brought back, processed, and used to feed someone.

In this context, the hunter acts as harvester feeding a surprisingly large community. On the conservancy in Zimbabwe, there are approximately 450 people working there -- labourers, game scouts, camp staff, and so on. A million acres is a mighty big place. And all those people are fed with the meat that comes from the hunts. That meat also feeds the surrounding communities.

Interestingly, even with seven permanent hunting camp facilities on the property and a well run and marketed operation, they still don't manage to have hunters shoot enough plainsgame to keep populations stable. Even the 140-150 lions on the property, along with an even greater population of leopard, can't keep up. Last year during the off season, camp managers had to cull an additional 5,000 wildebeest alone. The zebra and impala culls would most certainly have been even greater, based on the number of animals we saw. And again, every single scrap of resulting protein was fed to someone. Meat is never, ever wasted in Africa.

So yes, I can assure you, everything was eaten.

 

[Jay]

Simply one of the best posts with photo's I have read here at CGN! Thank you for posting & congratulations on your hunt!

Cheers
Jay

 

[chris88cl]

Absolutely amazing. My dream hunt for sure. Just out of curiousity, how much does a hunt like that cost these days? Feel free to PM me a rough figure if you want.

I better start saving NOW.