We ate some springbok meat—always delicious. Honestly, everything I ate was great. Hats off to the cook, the lovely Marianne. The dining area was fantastic—an open space for eating and relaxing.
After lunch, I tried to get some rest. I managed a short nap, just a few minutes of sleep. I made a plan for the evening outing and discussed it with Young Hendrik. Earlier that morning, while we were in the bakkie, Hendrik had mentioned a small herd of blue wildebeest that had settled in the area. I suggested looking for them. Hendrik said there was no quota yet from the farmer for a trophy specimen, and finding them would be tough. The area was large, but they knew a few spots where the wildebeest liked to stay. We could look for an old cow with no calves to cull, but Tangini had doubts. If there were any, it would likely be just one. The farmer wanted the group to grow.
Plan B was a possible zebra cull. We had seen one the previous day while driving with Hermann that could be culled. Locating them was another challenge. If we saw a nice warthog, we’d go for it.
This plan was just for the evening. Duiker and steenbok were off-limits by the farmer’s orders. For springbok, there were better opportunities near Gobabis, where we’d hunt tomorrow.
We drove a long time to the area where the wildebeest might be. It was still very hot. The zebra might be in the same spot. This part of the farm was much more open. We drove for a couple of hours without success—no zebras and no sign of the wildebeest. We reached a border fence with the neighboring farm. In between was a small strip of no-man’s-land. On the other farm’s side, we saw what looked like a nice warthog. It appeared old, with one decent tusk visible. After a while, it entered no-man’s-land. We decided to intercept it, hoping it would cross into our hunting area.
The choice it made was fatal. It entered our side. Its pace quickened as it decided to cross the road. I took a running shot, high on the shoulder near the spine. It dropped instantly. A nice old warthog with character. Tangini and Hendrik were surprised by my shot. They thought I’d miss when it picked up speed. Luckily, I surprised them. I regularly shoot standing without support while hunting roe deer at home.
We walked up to the warthog. The other tusk was much smaller. Young Hendrik apologized, but I told him not to be silly—it was a great trophy. This warthog had lived through some stories. The light was fading. Time for a beer. I bummed a cigarette from Young Hendrik—this deserved a smoke. My cigars were back at camp and would come out later that evening. On the way back, we scouted for the wildebeest and zebra but had no luck.
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After dinner, I enjoyed a nice cigar, a Cuban Montecristo, and swapped stories with the German hunters. It was Hermann’s last evening; he was leaving tomorrow. The other two would depart on Friday. Tomorrow, we’d head to a different area. My wife wanted an impala, so we’d honor her wishes.
To be continued..
