Thank you for all of the kind words. Here is my next installment:
“Blesbok!”
Jorge jolted me awake with one word. I hadn’t really been asleep, but somewhere between resting my eyes in anticipation of the long day ahead staring at the South African landscape and taking my time to fully wake up, allowing my body to relax for just a few minutes more on the 20 minute ride from camp to the hunting property. After all, can one really sleep in a vehicle while traveling down a corrugated and potholed African road?
I opened my eyes to the gray morning light and leaned forward in the passenger’s seat which was on the left side of the vehicle, something I never was able to become accustomed to during my trip, and my heart rate instantly doubled. Staring right at us twenty feet away were two mature blesbok rams that were walking down the dirt road as we came around the corner. Opening your eyes to the first glimpse of one of your target species staring you in the face will wake you up quicker than mainlining Cuban coffee.
“Shit, someone must have left the gate open! Want to shoot them?!” It wasn’t clear if Jorge was asking me or telling me. It didn’t matter, we were both on the same page and I was two words ahead of him. I was already out of the truck before he could finish the question, standing just a couple steps away from the two rams who were in a compromising position facing the truck with a barbed wire fence on their left and myself blocking the escape on their right. We locked eyes and had a brief staredown, each wondering the others intentions and next move. I was so incredibly close that the first thought to crop up in my head was to spring forward and close the gap, grab one by the horns, and wrestle it to the ground like common livestock. Couldn’t be that difficult, I’ve done it with more domesticated species plenty of times. I have wrangled numerous marlin and sharks several times my size. I have even slapped the rump of a three-quarter ton bull as it thundered past me on the cobbled streets of Pamplona. I could find no reason why this endeavor wouldn’t also go in my favor. I took a breath and crouched slightly, ready to pounce.
In one motion I sprang backwards while opening the rear door and instructing B with one brisk word, “Rifle!” She grabbed the soft case next to her and shoved it into my outstretched arms. While keeping one eye on the two rams I tore open the zipper and pulled out the old Savage .270 Remington, an inexpensive entry level gun at best, but a gun that has sentimental value being my first real hunting rifle and having been manufactured the same month and year I was born. I pulled two rounds that had been strategically left in the buttstock scabbard and mashed them into the magazine as I tossed the soft case into the bed of the pickup. All the while our quarry were trying to navigate around their newfound obstacles, including a brief spat with the barbed wire. They decided to turn and trot back down the road towards the property gate. I pushed the bolt forward just as Jorge set the sticks in front of me. As I settled into the sticks and found my target in the glass, Jorge elaborated for me, “I know they came from our property because none of the neighboring properties have blesbok and our gate is just around that curve where they were coming from. The fellow who lives there must have forgot to close the gate when he left. I would much rather you shoot one here than it end up getting hit by a car out on the road.” “I am happy to help,” I obliged. “Which one?” “They are both good, but go ahead and take the one in the path,” he instructed. I settled the crosshairs and waited. “Do you have a shot?” he inquired. “Well, I could make a Texas heart shot if you want me to,” I half joked. “Whats that?” he inquired. “Its where, um, you shoot…,” I began to explain. “Never mind, all I can see is his asshole,” I hastened. “Oh,” Jorge seemed to understand my predicament.
Both animals continued trotting away from us so we decided to give chase to close the gap and see if they would stop and turn out of curiosity. It didn’t work, they wouldn’t stop and they even picked up the pace a bit. After a couple hundred yards of following to no avail, Jorge made a decision to stop and for me to take the shot if I had one, as we were running out of road and the pair were edging closer to escaping into the brush adjacent the road and being lost for good instead of following the road back into the property.
We stopped and as I prepared for the shot, they slowed their pace and began to glance back at us over their shoulders. “Take the one in the road whenever he gives you a clear shot,” Jorge repeated. It was the most logical shot to take of the two, being a clear straight shot as soon as he would show his shoulder while the other ram was off the road in the scrub and tall grass and twenty five yards further away. I watched and waited as they slowed to a meandering walk, but refused to stop or turn. “They are both good shooters?” I asked Jorge. “Yes,” he confirmed, “take the shot when you have one.” I set the crosshairs, took a breath, and began to squee—
The two and a half pound trigger surprised me, as intended, and I blinked. When I recovered my focus through the glass, I saw nothing standing where I had aimed. I moved out from behind the rifle and scanned the area. No movement. The ram in the road finally stopped and turned to look at us. “Which one did you shoot at?” Jorge inquired. “The one along the fenceline. It turned broadside and was about to jump over,” I informed him. “Oh, I was watching the one in the road. Did you get him? I didn’t see anything run off when you shot so you must have got him,” Jorge reasoned. “I think so, the shot felt good but I blinked,” I confessed. Franz piped up, “Yes, down. I see it go down.” B chimed in also, “I think you got it, I thought I saw it fall in the grass and it never got up.” “Well lets go check it out,” Jorge grinned, curious to see what he had barely missed. “Unless you want to shoot the other one.” I looked up and the other ram was still standing in the road. “No thanks, one is good for me. B, you want that one?” I asked. “Nah, too easy,” she replied with a smile.
We drove the truck down to where we had last seen the animal and Franz hopped out and walked right to it, even thought it was obscured by the tall grass until you had almost tripped over it. The 130 grain Barnes had found its target and the animal had dropped where it stood and died quickly. I was relieved and thankful. They carried it to the truck and B glanced back towards where I had shot from. “Kind of a longer shot. What is that, almost two hundred yards?” she said partly thinking out loud and partly asking anyone who would answer. Jorge quickly looked back down the road and responded, “a little over.” That was a real confidence booster for both of us for the rest of the trip. Being used to shooting whitetails out of a blind, it was one of my longer shots on an animal. And the max distance at our range is 100 yards, where B had taken all of her practice shots.
We set the animal up and snapped a few photos as the sun creeped over the horizon and began to warm the morning air. Jorge and Franz congratulated me and we loaded up the animal. It was the second day of our safari, I had my first African animal in the truck, and it was only 7am. While not your typical spot and stalk, the hunt for this animal was every bit as exciting for me and it was all packed into just a couple heart pounding minutes and a few hundred yards. I was already content with the day and eager to see what the next few days would have in store for us as we rolled down the dirt path and onto the concession through the open gate.
-S
