July 1, 2022
It’s Day 5 and the routine is starting to seem familiar. Having another hunter and PH in camp added a new and interesting dynamic to breakfast – especially when both PH’s are fluent in German. Having one German speaker around is like having one lawyer - nothing is really different until the second one shows up.
Big John was going with the buffalo hunters so a new tracker joined Nick and I. This new tracker didn’t speak much English so Nick pretty much had to use Zulu when talking with him.
The early plans were to swap cards on a trailcam and get the zebra and impala guts from the skinning shed. I liked the idea because there are always birds around the waterholes and I’ve already mentioned how good the area around the skinning shed is for birds. Besides, yesterday’s warthog had taken the edge of my desire to hunt. I really don’t know whether it was because it finished my main list or if I needed a little time to mentally recover from the hack job of shooting. Either way, it was a good morning to be interested in the birds.
On the way to the waterhole, though, the PH and Tracker notice some buffalo sign crossing the road. We got out to check. The tracks, what they call spoor, were fresh looking but the droppings were literally cold. Still, they radioed the information to the other PH in case he needed somewhere to start. They were out checking the new client’s rifle but had already decided to start with a buffalo that had come into the camp’s waterhole last night. I had already gone to bed but both PH’s were still up and actually got to see him and took some pictures. I don’t know much about Cape buffalo but, from the photos, he looked like a shooter bull to me.
At the waterhole, there were mostly doves but I still walked around some. I could hear a Zulu conversation over by the truck. It turned out that the new tracker can’t drive. “He’s not much good to me if he can’t drive”, Nick said, so he decided to leave him at the salt shed to finish up some work around there. I still had two days to find a steenbok so I wasn’t worried. Africa had spoiled me into believing that she fulfills every wish. We made it to the skinning shed without an interruption by any game I was interested in.
I birded around the property at the shed while Nick took the zebra and impala innards that were in a couple of big basins and put them on the back of the truck for a trip to the Vulture Restaurant. I got a few bird photos but nothing new.
On the way back, we drove through a mixed flock of birds and decided to just be birders for a while. For someone so efficient at gutting a zebra, the PH really is an accomplished birder too. Something that amazed me for someone that was only 27 years old. I did get some better photos of violet-eared waxbill and pied babbler but I don’t think I got any new birds there either. The birds moved on and it was time to hunt.
Gearing up for the first stalk I had a chance to talk with Nick about shooting a steenbok. The literature suggests a mid-torso shot since a shot on the shoulder might be too destructive on such a delicate target. Nick’s suggestion was simpler. “Shoot him anywhere except in the leg. The only thing faster than a steenbok with four legs is a steenbok on three legs.” We found a steenbok on the first stalk but it turned out to be a ewe.
Up until today Nick and I had ridden in the back of the truck with Big John driving. I had kept my rifle loaded and in the outside rack. But since I was in the cab today I made sure to show Nick that I was not going to put a loaded gun in the truck. I showed him the empty chambers and told him that I was
not "Ridin' Dirty." Once more my young, South Africa PH surprised me by going into a rendition of the rap song, Ridin' Dirty. He seemed know all the words but I can't say for sure because I don't know the words. He didn't, however, know that riding dirty was an urban euphemism for having drugs in the car. A look of new understanding came over his face when I told him the meaning of the song. He ran through the lyrics again, this time testing each line against his new knowledge. "Yeah, I see that now," the freshly enlightened Nick admitted.
He kept the rap going until we got to the area where we'd seen the really nice steenbok ram which, thankfully, wasn't terribly far. The ram was there, in his favorite opening, but he bolted the moment he saw the truck. The larger animals are used to trucks driving the dirt roads so they don’t usually react unless the trucks stop. These little antelopes really have a different modus operandi. We never bothered to get out of the truck.
On the way to the Vulture Restaurant, we passed a steenbok ewe feeding in a pan about 50 yards off the road that seemed to simply ignore us. I got a good handful of photos. We eventually drove off with her just standing right there. It was nice to be able to just sit and watch one. Most of what I’ve seen so far was either from a long distance or just a fleeting glance.
I’ve mentioned it but I don’t think I’ve described the Vulture Restaurant. These guys have a place where they throw all of their animal remains. It’s not just a convenience. It’s a purposeful effort to provide for Africa’s dwindling vulture population. As man has taken the place as Africa’s most successful carnivore, there are fewer carcass being left out in the open. Africa’s aerial clean-up crews are suffering as a result. Nick dumped the remains of the impala and zebra but there were no birds around. Ironically, it had become lunchtime for us too.
We had a long lunch break that left me a lot of time to putz around the with my camera. And it was actually the prefect afternoon for just that. I picked up several new birds coming in for a drink including a Cutthroat Finch and a Yellow-throated Patronia. I also got better photos of a pair of very stunning bird species; Blue and Violet-eared Waxbills. A walk through the brush behind camp yielded a Long-billed Crombrec and a very good couple of photos of a Kurrichane Thrush. When it was time to get back on the truck, I had to coach myself to keep focused on the task at hand which was either a Steenbok or Common Duiker. I felt myself slipping into a frame of mind I call the “the off button” where pulling the trigger just isn’t the most important part of hunting. Africa had been very generous with me so far and I think my subconscious was telling me not to be greedy. My conscious mind wanted me to finish strong because there’s no telling when or if I’d ever be back to Africa.
We managed several blind stalks in the afternoon heat but neither produced any sightings of the small antelope I was after. As it cooled, we picked up the tracker from the shed and took to a very rough road along the hem of a mountain. We bumped into a herd of Buffalo. They were in some thick stuff and, once again, the others saw what I couldn’t – not until they pointed them out to me.
The Africans both got very excited and chattered to one another in hushed whispers. There was an English word or two occasionally but not enough for me to be sure what they were talking about. It’s humbling as an American who can barely speak my own language to meet so many smart people that speak two, three or even four languages fluently. After the discussion between guide and tracker, the radios were keyed up with more hush whispers and the buffalo hunter’s PH was alerted to this bachelor group’s whereabouts. They were close and drove to the base of the mountain road and came up the rest of the way on foot. They were amazingly quick but I had enough time to photograph a trio of White-headed Helmetshrikes, a new bird for me and one that I had hoped to see.
It was getting dark so the buffalo team drew up a quick plan to try and cutoff the buffalo. I was invited to tag along on the hunt but was afraid that I would involuntarily employ my now nearly patented step-on-a-dry-branch-during-a-stalk maneuver so I stayed by the truck with the tracker. Four rifled men, including Big John and my PH, quietly worked up the hill while the tracker and I waited in the nearly dark to hear what might happen next. It wasn’t a long wait before we heard a commotion that can best be described as four startled Cape Buffalo running through thick brush. The tracker found enough English to whisper, “that doesn’t sound good.” We waited for a shot but the next sound was four voices intermixed with the occasional dry, somewhat stifled laughter. If Buffalo hunting wasn’t hard, it wouldn’t be Buffalo hunting.
Dinner included a mixture of my impala’s heart, kidneys and liver over pita bread. I had had this giblet mixture from the wildebeest too. It’s interesting and gives me something to talk about once I’m home but I probably won’t be eating whitetail kidneys any time soon. Company around the fire was especially enjoyable this evening and I spent more time than usual there before heading to my tent.
7/2/2022
We had actually discussed leaving the guns in camp and going to the river on the Botswana border this morning to get some photos of hippo, crocs, and some waterbirds but I called an audible at breakfast. The steenbok had really gotten under my skin so I wanted to give it 100%. I wasn’t going to be disappointed with failure since I figure it added some credibility to the whole hunting experience if at least one of the animals on my list kicked our butts. But, that credibility would only come if I had put in the full effort. We left camp around the usual time, 7:30 am or so, and made our way through some of the roads that are now becoming familiar.
We crossed some buffalo tracks and Nick radioed the buffalo hunters with the information. I love everything we get to do so even a trip past the vulture restaurant was exceptional. There were several Lappet-face Vultures (a new bird for me), pied crows and a tagged White-backed Griffon Vulture along with another two-dozen other griffon feeding on the bounty left for them yesterday. The trip is about hunting, though, so we didn’t waste much time. We made a long stalk through an area that we knew held a nice Steenbok. A herd of impala slowed us up but I loved every minute of it. I kept telling myself, “You’re in Africa staring at a herd of impala.” It continues to seem surreal to me.
A long second stalk, across two different blocks yielded a good chance at a nice Steenbok. We saw him at about 250 yards in a grassy but otherwise fairly open area. We had to zig-zag using one tree as cover to another. He was standing most of the time and didn’t seem to notice us. But before we got into range, he bedded down and disappeared in the long grass. We continued and got in good range where I got on the shooting sticks. Nick had forgotten his predator call so he mooed like a large ungulate. The plan was for the Steenbok to stand up to see what was going on I would then take the shot but it didn’t work. He jumped up and into an immediate full-speed sprint. I got a look at his horns. He was a respectable ram but I never had a chance on a running steenbok in long grass – I didn’t even bother to try.
We made a short attempt on another steenbok seen by our tracker but it was already spooked. We saw it only after it had started running through the brush. We finished with another walk to the waterhole where I shot the pig. We bumped a few Kudu but nothing else. Lunch was fried chicken and fried potatoes.
Birds at the camp waterhole were great again today. I got photos of some sort of firefinch, probably Jameson’s, a Southern Black Tit and a Black-backed Puffback. I also repeated the Violet-eared and Blue Waxbills from yesterday. A, presumably new, troop of Vervet monkeys swarmed the camp today. I woke the PH who was sleeping in a hammock. At least one dominate, “blue-balled” male Vervet had a very bad day.
I photographed around camp for a while but, when the afternoon sun let up, we took a ride for one last attempt at Steenbok. The first blind stalk led us down a road that was parallel to an old dirt runway. We saw a very nice warthog with tusks much better than the one I killed. I put the crosshairs on him at 200 yards then again at about 100 yards. It’s completely acceptable to shot another warthog. Like everything else on the list, you just have to pay for it. Nick whispered, “Take him if you want.”
I told him that I had no interest in killing another pig I was just “counting coup”. When we got back to the truck, he asked what that meant, “counting coup”. I told him of the meaning that stems from a native American tradition of touching an opponent with a stick as a way of saying, “I could have killed you but I chose not to.” He had never heard of that expression but understood the meaning and my particular application.
When hunting, there’s always a better one out there and we, as hunters, have two choices in dealing with it: Accept the one we’ve got or always go for the bigger one. There is a bigger pig but I am pretty happy with the pig I got.
We saw a lot of game but neither this stalk nor the next one yielded a Steenbok or a Duiker. We drove back to camp under an African sunset so beautiful that even the other party noticed it. Around the evening fire before dinner both parties recanted having similar conversations about the unusual sunset, probably around the same time too. We all said the same things about the utter futility of past efforts to try to capture such beauty with a photograph. The only way to perfectly enjoy such a sunset is with Africa under your feet.
It was my last night in camp so I was treated to a German song in my honor and a shot from a pewter shot cup owned by one of the owner’s grandfathers. Back at the fire after dinner, the owner asked if I was ever coming back to Africa. An honest, “I don’t think so,” slipped out before I had to chance to edit my verbal response. Engineers aren’t known for being tactful conversationalists and I among the worst. I think I recovered somewhat by telling them that I wasn’t really a big game hunter. That fell flat when Nick mentioned that he’d seen me kill some pretty big game. I quickly added that if Africa was only a 5-hour flight away, I’d be back the next weekend. After those words left my mouth, I realized that it probably wasn’t far from the truth. I slept good in the comfort that Africa would be waiting and only a 16-hour flight away if I ever decided to return.
July 3, 2022
My plane doesn’t leave until 10 pm local time tonight so Nick couldn’t stand not giving it one more go in hopes of adding one of the pygmy antelopes to my taxidermy order. We had a usual breakfast with black French press coffee and headed for a quick loop through the property. I’ve read a dozen “last chance” Africa stories including Craig Boddington’s last-minute leopard so I was optimistic.
At the foot of the old runway, we noticed a pair of pied crows on top of what looked like an animal carcass. It turned out to be a couple of young warthogs that were filleted open. Almost like someone, but who, was setting out predator bait. We found out later it was the property owner’s doing - he just wanted to feed the vultures. It’s heartening to see how humans’ attitudes toward nature have matured in the past half-century or so.
I didn’t get the steenbok. I didn’t even get a shot at one but I really do like that it leaves me with at least one little piece of motivation to come back. I had lunch, packed up and personally visited each staff member that made my stay so wonderful. I took photos with Nick and Big John before Nick drove me the three hours back to the airport. My birding wasn’t over though.
We stopped for gas about an hour out of Johannesburg where I saw and photographed my first and only red-winged starlings. Just outside of Johannesburg we got a couple of fly-overs of Hadeda ibis. I tried to get a photograph of these flying birds through the curved windshield of a moving car. It just didn’t work. I told Nick that Hadeda ibises were one of the birds I had hoped to photograph. He had one more trick up his sleeve.
When we got to the airport, instead of going into the Departure Lane, Nick turned in towards an on-site parking deck. I told him he’d missed the turn but he told me he meant to take that road. I’ve learned to trust this young man so, like many times over the past week, I let things play out. Nick went up one level on the deck then down what was almost an alleyway that certainly wasn’t meant for regular traffic. We emerged behind a gas station where there was an Hadeda ibis standing on the rim of a dumpster. Nick hooted loudly saying that he had seen an ibis there when he was waiting for my plane and hoped it’d be there again. It was. The last African bird I photographed was that ibis. It was just one more on a long list of “thank you’s” that I owed Nick.
While waiting to board, the airport staff decided that all of the Atlanta passengers needed to be re-screened so we were hustled out of the gate area then screened and allowed back in based on our boarding preferences. I sat next to a young couple that were very nice. It turned out they were from Spartanburg, South Carolina. It’s not the most amazing “small world” story ever told but they were the first folks I had spoken to in over a week that didn’t have an accent.
By the time it was completely dark, I couldn’t see Africa beyond the lights of the tarmac. That may have been my last look at Africa for a long time, maybe forever, but I can say as Hemingway once put it, that I am altogether happy.
Steenbok ram - this is not the "big" one. The one I really wanted had another 2" of horns.
Male Violet-eared Waxbill, female and male Green-winged Pytilia, male Blue Waxbill and Golden-breasted Bunting.
Buffalo hunters coming back after getting busted
Banded and tagged White-backed Griffon vulture
Pied Crow
Dumpster-diving Hadeda Ibis - the last African bird on this trip.
