Longwalker
AH elite
The big day continued...
Dalton had a hunch that the buffalo herd of which Kevin’s bull was a “former member, deceased” would be back in the river breaks far to the south end of the concession. I was hoping we would encounter that bull’s very old, broken horned companion with the big white scar on his side. He was ancient, crusty, ugly, and a perfect “management” bull to add to our bag.
We drove down in mid-afternoon, stopping along the way to cut and tie a knobthorn bush to a rope behind the bakkie. We used it to sweep the road of old tracks and help our chances later if the herd proved difficult to locate.
I like edged tools of all sorts, owing to my ancestors’ vocation as butchers and my own dabbling as a hobby woodworker. The local axes made from simple knobthorn-root handles and a piece of leaf spring from a truck were fascinating. They are simple and effective, as well as tough and cheap. Very different than the axe a Canadian canoeist or hunter would typically carry in the bush.
Passing through some steep cuts in the river breaks, we passed near an artistically built machan that we were told was made for Gary Duckworth’s client last season. A lion had been shot from that platform. Made me dream of lions, while I was hunting buffalo! Enough of that, time to focus on here and now.
Just a few meters along, the trail was suddenly full of tracks and wet droppings and some dust lingered in the air. The herd was right in front of us!
We bailed out, loaded up, and Dalton and Andrew led us North East following sign even I could understand. Stalking very carefully we could hear the herd, and soon ignored the tracks, following by sound. Three big mature bulls broke out of cover and moved to the south, towards the boundary of the property. We ignored them, as difficult as that decision was.
Down on hands and knees, we followed the herd through the thorns by crawling about 150 metres. Stopping frequently to glass the by now typical tail-swishes and bobbing horn tips, and bits of gray hide, but we seldom saw more. While creeping and crawling through the thick riparian area, we trod on some aromatic herbs that reminded me of bergamot. What an odd time to be reminded about Earl Gray Tea!
We continued our pursuit for two hours and at least another kilometer, without getting a good look at any of them despite our best “sneaky tactics”.
The herd spooked twice, but when they ran, it was only for a short way because the cover was fairly thick and evening had arrived. Buffalo avoid running into unseen dangers in the dark. Dalton and I ran after them and he stopped them both times with a calf in distress call. By now I knew to expect that, and we finally got a good look at some of the herd which we estimated to hold about 60 animals.
A really BIG but young bull turned and faced us, peering at us threateningly from behind a Mopane bush. He was perhaps 80-90M away. Magnificent, wonderful, but too young, and too wide. Dalton called again, and a cow and a smaller, older bull stepped forward to face the threat, and present their own challenge.
The old one stepped forward and tossed his horns. Staring down his muzzle at us defiantly. Chin up, like a Spanish fighting bull. Dalton whispered– “ too big” but we had the sticks up, and I was already aiming at the centre of his chest.
After a short eternity, and a few quiet muttered words of discussion, Dalton said, “ we should shoot this one”
Me- “I can make the shot …”
Dalton – “wait until he turns…”
Me – strained breathing…for what seems like minutes…crosshairs actually quite steady between the crease of his neck where it joins the shoulder and the dewlap hanging under his chin…
Buffalo – turns slightly a half step to the right
Dalton- “are you going to shoo..” BOOM!
I have fast reloading reflexes, but he wheeled so quickly I didn’t have time to shoot again. He disappeared behind a mopane bush.
A couple seconds later he came hobbling back out, head down, barely able to walk. I put a solid through his shoulders, and he pitched forward on his nose. A quick last solid placed “in the middle” was kinda celebratory, and not strictly necessary or helpful.
We approached with due caution by circling around from behind. I was told to put another A Frame into the chest through the withers and spine. Not even a quiver. It was done.
What a mix of emotions! He was big and beautiful and wild, and ugly and smelly and scary. He was alive and free only a minute before but I wanted him. I offered my thanks to his departing spirit. After that proper pause and hands-on of respect, there was lots of congratulations and “Waidmannsheil”. Handshakes and hugs and grins and a general feeling of a job well done. The whole crew was very happy.
We inspected the carcass and found my first bullet, an A Frame soft, was placed perfectly, just in the crease between neck and chest, about 1/3 up. The humerus bones in both shoulders were broken from the solid used for the second shot. The bull’s horn boss was solid, with nice curls, and not too wide. He had only one testicle. Perfect!
We snapped a few quick pictures,
And then it got dark.
We had seen a puff adder a couple of days before, and so I was glad not to be walking first in line in the dark on our long hike to the next cross trail to the north. We left bits of toilet paper on the bushes to guide the recovery.
When we hit the cross trail, we sat and built a fire and waited for our driver Clopoas. Andrew guiding him on the hand-held radio to our location. But instead of a speedy pick up, Clopoas got lost. The first and only time of our many pick-ups. He eventually told us he was going back to camp and get the recovery crew and someone who knew the trails better.
So we had a long wait, which wasn’t unpleasant with the bull on the ground and a warm night to enjoy, with all the sounds of Africa in the background. The Southern cross fascinates me, set in unfamiliar skies with the stars of the southern hemisphere. I always know I’m having an adventure when I see it. Big moths were flying around our little sparkling fire. On second look, they were tiny bats. Always something to surprise a traveller in Africa.
After another hour or so, the crew from camp showed up, and that was an adventure in itself. The head butcher was very businesslike, directing the crew where to chop a trail about a KM long, with pangas and their home-made axes. Having packed out many Canadian moose and elk in the dark myself or with one companion, it was a bit odd to have so much help, in fact to have 10 other people doing all the work. But we played the expected role of honoured guest and successful hunter, and mostly watched except for moving a few small trees and branches.
We got in about 10PM, and the kitchen ladies greeted us hungry hunters with a wonderful celebratory meal of Buffalo tenderloin from Kevin’s bull. Seemed appropriate.
Dalton had a hunch that the buffalo herd of which Kevin’s bull was a “former member, deceased” would be back in the river breaks far to the south end of the concession. I was hoping we would encounter that bull’s very old, broken horned companion with the big white scar on his side. He was ancient, crusty, ugly, and a perfect “management” bull to add to our bag.
We drove down in mid-afternoon, stopping along the way to cut and tie a knobthorn bush to a rope behind the bakkie. We used it to sweep the road of old tracks and help our chances later if the herd proved difficult to locate.
I like edged tools of all sorts, owing to my ancestors’ vocation as butchers and my own dabbling as a hobby woodworker. The local axes made from simple knobthorn-root handles and a piece of leaf spring from a truck were fascinating. They are simple and effective, as well as tough and cheap. Very different than the axe a Canadian canoeist or hunter would typically carry in the bush.
Passing through some steep cuts in the river breaks, we passed near an artistically built machan that we were told was made for Gary Duckworth’s client last season. A lion had been shot from that platform. Made me dream of lions, while I was hunting buffalo! Enough of that, time to focus on here and now.
Just a few meters along, the trail was suddenly full of tracks and wet droppings and some dust lingered in the air. The herd was right in front of us!
We bailed out, loaded up, and Dalton and Andrew led us North East following sign even I could understand. Stalking very carefully we could hear the herd, and soon ignored the tracks, following by sound. Three big mature bulls broke out of cover and moved to the south, towards the boundary of the property. We ignored them, as difficult as that decision was.
Down on hands and knees, we followed the herd through the thorns by crawling about 150 metres. Stopping frequently to glass the by now typical tail-swishes and bobbing horn tips, and bits of gray hide, but we seldom saw more. While creeping and crawling through the thick riparian area, we trod on some aromatic herbs that reminded me of bergamot. What an odd time to be reminded about Earl Gray Tea!
We continued our pursuit for two hours and at least another kilometer, without getting a good look at any of them despite our best “sneaky tactics”.
The herd spooked twice, but when they ran, it was only for a short way because the cover was fairly thick and evening had arrived. Buffalo avoid running into unseen dangers in the dark. Dalton and I ran after them and he stopped them both times with a calf in distress call. By now I knew to expect that, and we finally got a good look at some of the herd which we estimated to hold about 60 animals.
A really BIG but young bull turned and faced us, peering at us threateningly from behind a Mopane bush. He was perhaps 80-90M away. Magnificent, wonderful, but too young, and too wide. Dalton called again, and a cow and a smaller, older bull stepped forward to face the threat, and present their own challenge.
The old one stepped forward and tossed his horns. Staring down his muzzle at us defiantly. Chin up, like a Spanish fighting bull. Dalton whispered– “ too big” but we had the sticks up, and I was already aiming at the centre of his chest.
After a short eternity, and a few quiet muttered words of discussion, Dalton said, “ we should shoot this one”
Me- “I can make the shot …”
Dalton – “wait until he turns…”
Me – strained breathing…for what seems like minutes…crosshairs actually quite steady between the crease of his neck where it joins the shoulder and the dewlap hanging under his chin…
Buffalo – turns slightly a half step to the right
Dalton- “are you going to shoo..” BOOM!
I have fast reloading reflexes, but he wheeled so quickly I didn’t have time to shoot again. He disappeared behind a mopane bush.
A couple seconds later he came hobbling back out, head down, barely able to walk. I put a solid through his shoulders, and he pitched forward on his nose. A quick last solid placed “in the middle” was kinda celebratory, and not strictly necessary or helpful.
We approached with due caution by circling around from behind. I was told to put another A Frame into the chest through the withers and spine. Not even a quiver. It was done.
What a mix of emotions! He was big and beautiful and wild, and ugly and smelly and scary. He was alive and free only a minute before but I wanted him. I offered my thanks to his departing spirit. After that proper pause and hands-on of respect, there was lots of congratulations and “Waidmannsheil”. Handshakes and hugs and grins and a general feeling of a job well done. The whole crew was very happy.
We snapped a few quick pictures,
And then it got dark.
We had seen a puff adder a couple of days before, and so I was glad not to be walking first in line in the dark on our long hike to the next cross trail to the north. We left bits of toilet paper on the bushes to guide the recovery.
When we hit the cross trail, we sat and built a fire and waited for our driver Clopoas. Andrew guiding him on the hand-held radio to our location. But instead of a speedy pick up, Clopoas got lost. The first and only time of our many pick-ups. He eventually told us he was going back to camp and get the recovery crew and someone who knew the trails better.
So we had a long wait, which wasn’t unpleasant with the bull on the ground and a warm night to enjoy, with all the sounds of Africa in the background. The Southern cross fascinates me, set in unfamiliar skies with the stars of the southern hemisphere. I always know I’m having an adventure when I see it. Big moths were flying around our little sparkling fire. On second look, they were tiny bats. Always something to surprise a traveller in Africa.
We got in about 10PM, and the kitchen ladies greeted us hungry hunters with a wonderful celebratory meal of Buffalo tenderloin from Kevin’s bull. Seemed appropriate.
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