The next day I left Warren’s farm to hunt with another outfitter. After my hunt with them was over, we were on our way to the airport when I received a WhatsApp from Warren. He told me he had just seen my bull. Further messages revealed the bull had lost condition, was all by himself, and likely wouldn't make it through the winter. I was happy the bull had won but a bit sad knowing he would soon fall to the veld.
Now, after nearly three years, I was back at Warren’s side and sitting in the donga looking at two mature bulls. Eventually a female warthog came out of the brush and stood near the bigger of the two bulls. The two stared at each other for a few moments before the warthog flipped her head and bluff rushed at the bull. He bolted a dozen meters or so and so did the other bull. After a small while, three smaller bulls moved out and took the place where the two bigger bulls had been before the warthog ran them out. The two bigger bulls could still occasionally be seen but had moved farther down the ridge. The smaller bulls were beginning to move off, seemingly taking my hopes with them.
I settled back to watch the night close in. Warren whispered that he could see the legs of another kudu coming. “Bullshit,” I thought to myself. Mentally I had taken note of what was on the hillside and believed all kudu had passed by. Warren again whispered he believed he saw legs and my thoughts were again repeated. Warren’s next words caught me by surprise, “You can take this one if you want to.” I looked above us and saw a beautiful bull. I looked at the tops of his horns and saw that they were long and finished. His look was quite different than those seen prior. Immediately I said I would take him.
I moved a bit to reach for the rifle we have lovingly named “Bob.” Bob of course was named after our own Bob Nelson, the Australian man who has single-handedly been preaching the virtues of the .35 Whelen. The rifle named Bob was recently put together from a Remington Sportsman 78 action by my local gunsmith. After exhaustively trying to get it to shoot accurately with 225 grain Nosler Ballistic Tips, I tried some bulk 200 grain Remington Core-Lokts salvaged from an estate and found a load that held good accuracy.
My movement for the rifle did not go unnoticed. A few of the bulls were watching but not yet alarmed. I moved into an odd prone position, propping up a possibles bag as a rest. The bull was somewhat quartering towards us and staring at our odd forms below in the washed out donga. The shot was not far, less than 125 yards, but I struggled a bit to get the crosshairs where they needed to be. As the crosshairs moved back and forth across the bull’s chest, Bob finally tired of waiting and fired. I heard the bullet hit as the bull wheeled and tore off across the hillside. I climbed out of the dry wash, dropped to a kneeling position and contemplated sending an insurance shot. Though the bull appeared to be running strong, he was losing elevation as he ran. I held off on shooting and the bull disappeared into a thick patch of spekboom. We heard a crash and for a moment, labored breathing. Warren lit a cigarette and we watched that patch of hillside until his smoke was finished. We moved slowly and cautiously towards the thick spekboom patch where my bull was found, stone dead.
We found the bullet had entered the chest on the left side, angled back and exited the top of the back behind the shoulders.
For me, a mount represents a memory. I have a mule deer mount that reminds me of miserable mountain weather, time spent deep in the wilderness with a high-school friend, a mouse that wouldn't leave my chocolate stash alone and a tree that blew over between our two tiny tents. The fact the mount is of a very large mule deer is secondary to these memories. Other mounts in my home evoke unique memories of times spent in the field with my father.
Many reading this report will point out that this bull is not 50 inches and that is true. Hunting is not about inches. The bull is not the largest I’ve seen on Warren’s; not by a long shot, but he is beautiful. He is perfect to represent my wonderful friends and their farm. He is perfect to remind me of the squeaks and rattles an old Land Cruiser makes while moving along farm roads. He is perfect to remind me of all the time sitting under plumb trees with binoculars in hand watching countless numbers of kudu slowly making their way out of the brushy mountains, and of finally seeing a very nice hunt come together.
*** I will try to add photos later... this computer is giving me fits.
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thankfully he went boom, not boom boom here
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