Cleathorn
AH veteran
I booked an elephant hunt for 10 days. Elephant can be serious work, requiring miles of walking, stalking, and tracking. Then I shot a great bull on the first day. Hmm, now what?
Fortunately, I brought a good friend along as an observer. Since he had never hunted dangerous game, we had both an opportunity, and a plan. We should try and hunt “black death.” With a first timer, this would be exciting. By the end of day three, his first cape buffalo was in the salt. Well, now what.
My good friend and PH Lindon suggested we have a look for crocodile. In Zimbabwean PH speak, “have a look” means we are hunting crocodile. The middle Zambesi River region between Victoria Falls and Lake Kariba is a spectacular but little discussed area. It is communal lands with interspersed agricultural villages, friendly and affable people and lots of elephant, buffalo, and especially big crocodiles.
Lindon had baited an area near a local fishing village for the previous hunters. Several crocodiles showed up on the bait, but a big dominant croc drove them off. We checked the bait on the first day of our now seven-day croc hunt. We saw a croc out on a sand bar but without good line of sight, we had little to work with and we kept looking elsewhere. The croc did however look pretty big.
We traveled up and down the river, used Lindon’s boat to search the headwaters of Lake Kariba, and found a lot of crocs. We even missed one - nothing to see or talk about there so let’s move on. We could not find, (or hit) the quality of crocodile I was looking for, so we kept coming back to that first bait site.
On day 3 we had a good look at the first croc, and decided he was smaller than originally thought. His head just wasn’t big enough. So, we headed back to the headwaters of Kariba and did some staking on the islands.
A few words about stalking crocodiles on small islands in Kariba: they are loaded with hippos. Big. Mean. And very unfriendly - hippos.
On one particular island, we saw a crocodile worth taking a closer look at. As we moved closer, the trampled vegetation was telltale hippo activity. We got close to that croc and it was a little small, but something had Lindon’s eye. As “it” got closer, Lindon’s eyes got larger. I finally looked around the corner of the brush and peed my pants a little, the pod of hippo was close, the bull was even closer, and my 458 Lott seemed insufficient. Don’t lose track of the 1st timer DG hunter, he was carrying my 470ne and wondered what was so interesting. So, he took a look. Well, that didn’t go very well.
When Mark moved, that hippo took a few steps towards us with mouth open wide and tusks in full display. At 5 yards or so, it was unnerving. In this case, unnerving means more pee in the pants. Wholly crap. Adding to the scene, the hippo scared the croc, and when the croc went into the water with a rather chaotic splash, the temptation was to jump forward, which of course is where the hippo was. At this point I have a 470ne in 1 hand, a 458 Lott in the other hand, a friend sitting in the mud with no gun, and Lindon laughing at both of us. Not helpful Lindon. He kept laughing anyway.
Let’s keep looking for crocs. And my dignity.
On the ride back to camp we discussed that first croc again. His head was just too small. Orrrrr. Maybe his body was really, really big, and it made his head look small. Now that’s an idea worth exploring.
We checked again (and again, and again) and decided he was in fact huge. But no shot.
Last day, we tried again and could not find him. We made the usual circuit and returned to his favorite sandbar at 2:30 for the last look of the trip. Lindon finally spotted a tail. On the far sandbar, 200 meters into the river, on the other side of his normal sandbar, quartering away and mostly covered by brush. Our hunt was over.
“Lindon,” I said. “You know what we need? A boat.” Lin is a rather jovial guy and usually smiling, but this time he looked almost devious “a Boat, right” he answered. We checked the village, and no boats were around. Lin’s tracker spotted some fisherman in the river, flagged them down and they rowed feverishly against the current to where we waited on the shore. The 2 white guys waving cash might have helped.
After a brief negotiation, they agreed to use their spirit boat to row us out to the first sand bar, where we should have a 100 meter or less shot at the giant croc. Never heard of a spirit boat, well it’s a boat in spirit only.
Boats, almost be definition, float. A spirit boat doesn’t really float, it just sinks slowly enough that it can be bailed out most of the time. That’s with a crew of 2 Zimbabwean fisherman that weigh about 120lbs each. Turns out, a few hundred pounds (each) of white hunters increases the bailing rate exponentially – but we somehow got to the island nevertheless. Not without attracting some attention.
Back on shore, the crowed gathered. A few local kids at first, and then more and more villagers arrived. It turned into a unique Zambesi Saturday night. Fifty plus villagers, and my friend and observer, watched our hunt from the bank. They watched for a long time. We were only 56 yards away, but the angle and that one lone branch, thwarted our hunt. With light fading, Lin suggested I be ready. Okay, why? Then he whistled.
Head comes up, trigger breaks, gun goes off, croc thumps head a few times, and I empty rest of gun into him for security. Typical crocodile hunt, except for the audience.
Back into the boat, we row around the corner, through a gap in the reeds and onto the sandbar to gather up our croc. Lin’s face goes flush. No croc. The small sandbar was covered in blood, but the croc was obviously in the water. “Ahhh, now what?” I ask. “Well, we gotta find him.” Lin’s comment seemed reasonable. How, exactly, do you look for a wounded croc in the Zambesi River? Well, you should ask that question before you find yourself in the situation, as you might not like the method.
Armed with his shooting sticks as a dredge, Lin started into the water raking the reeds and dredging the bottom looking for the wounded, and likely very much still alive, croc. First he was ankle deep, then knee deep, then thigh deep, then waist deep. “I’ll wait here” seemed reasonable. We then “discussed” the fact that I had the only gun and came to a resolution. I thought Lindon’s language was a little harsh, but we agreed that I would follow Lin into the bloody water, looking for a wounded croc with a stick. Yes, I do sometimes question my own life choices, but it seemed that following him into the bloody water looking for the wounded croc was better than what Lin would otherwise do with the sticks.
We could not find the croc.
The now large crowed on the shore was frantic. But 200 meters of roiling Zambesi River meant we could not hear a dam thing. Enough finger pointing, shouting and arm waving finally sunk in – they could see the croc. As we paddled through the gap in reeds, the croc had swum under what constituted our boat, into the main river and was headed back to the tip of his favorite sandbar. “You put a whole through is chest cavity, he can’t stay underwater” Lin explained, “lets go.” “Go where, exactly?” I thought it was a reasonable question – but again, I was wrong.
Back into the leaking, sinking spirit boat, we tried to get around to the sandbar and get a shot. Shooting from the bow of a leaking boat, bobbing up and down in the roiling water of the Zambesi at a wounded croc is not a workable solution. Back to shore, we can get a shot from there.
Shooting prone of the downslope of the beach with a 458 Lott and a cheering crowed of 50+ people turns out to be not better. And I could not see the bloody croc on the sandbar. Eventually we agreed that Lin would take the shot and I would spot the croc through the glasses.
One look through good binos and I realized my mistake – I was looking for a croc on a sandbar – what I saw was a croc the size of a sandbar! Yep, I did in fact mistake a croc for a sandbar. Good grief.
I shot him again and he was clearly anchored. I shot him three more times anyway.
Back across the Zambesi in our spirit boat to retrieve him. And then back across to get 4 more guys to load him. If you are keeping track, we now have a croc, 2 boatmen, a PH, a hunter and 4 additional guys on a sandbar the size of a kitchen table. Croc tend to twitch even when dead. It’s very unnerving. Apparently so is a shot from a 458 Lott at point blank range when he twitched. I am not proud, but I am alive.
There was only room for the croc, the PH and the boatmen going back. The boat basically sunk taking the croc back to shore.
“Can we swim back?” I asked the trackers. “In that (pointing to the Zambesi), hell no, its full of bloody crocs” they said. “Well, in fairness, I think we shot the bloody croc, so….” Turns out it was not time for humor. We waited. They emptied the boat (of croc and water), rowed back across the river, and finally retrieved us at dusk. I was not keen on spending anymore of my Saturday night on that sandbar after dark.
The viewing area had become a full-blown party by the time we made it back to shore. Native singing, dancing, and celebration for the end of Dumbora. Apparently, the croc had a name. I have no idea what Dumbora means, but he had been eating dogs, goats, cattle, some Zebra and I can only guess what else, for a while – the villagers were not fans of Dumbora; especially the women who were responsible for getting water.
We took a lot of photos.
Then it was time to pay our river guides. We had agreed on twenty dollars. Somewhat long-faced, Lin explained that we had a problem, the boat was beyond repair, sinking to its watery grave in the Zambesi. We had to pay for the boat. “How much,” I asked. “Eighty bucks.” "Seriously," I laughed, I paid the $80, gave them another $20 for good measure and sealed our relationship with a hat. Happy, our boatmen just walked away. Where they went, how far, etc. will remain a mystery.
Dumbora tapped out at over 15 ½ feet long and was missing about 12” of tail. It hard to believe that a croc that big was plying the waters of the middle Zambesi, but we have photos. I also have a full mount being done to commemorate the hunt. I have no idea where to put it.
Fortunately, I brought a good friend along as an observer. Since he had never hunted dangerous game, we had both an opportunity, and a plan. We should try and hunt “black death.” With a first timer, this would be exciting. By the end of day three, his first cape buffalo was in the salt. Well, now what.
My good friend and PH Lindon suggested we have a look for crocodile. In Zimbabwean PH speak, “have a look” means we are hunting crocodile. The middle Zambesi River region between Victoria Falls and Lake Kariba is a spectacular but little discussed area. It is communal lands with interspersed agricultural villages, friendly and affable people and lots of elephant, buffalo, and especially big crocodiles.
Lindon had baited an area near a local fishing village for the previous hunters. Several crocodiles showed up on the bait, but a big dominant croc drove them off. We checked the bait on the first day of our now seven-day croc hunt. We saw a croc out on a sand bar but without good line of sight, we had little to work with and we kept looking elsewhere. The croc did however look pretty big.
We traveled up and down the river, used Lindon’s boat to search the headwaters of Lake Kariba, and found a lot of crocs. We even missed one - nothing to see or talk about there so let’s move on. We could not find, (or hit) the quality of crocodile I was looking for, so we kept coming back to that first bait site.
On day 3 we had a good look at the first croc, and decided he was smaller than originally thought. His head just wasn’t big enough. So, we headed back to the headwaters of Kariba and did some staking on the islands.
A few words about stalking crocodiles on small islands in Kariba: they are loaded with hippos. Big. Mean. And very unfriendly - hippos.
On one particular island, we saw a crocodile worth taking a closer look at. As we moved closer, the trampled vegetation was telltale hippo activity. We got close to that croc and it was a little small, but something had Lindon’s eye. As “it” got closer, Lindon’s eyes got larger. I finally looked around the corner of the brush and peed my pants a little, the pod of hippo was close, the bull was even closer, and my 458 Lott seemed insufficient. Don’t lose track of the 1st timer DG hunter, he was carrying my 470ne and wondered what was so interesting. So, he took a look. Well, that didn’t go very well.
When Mark moved, that hippo took a few steps towards us with mouth open wide and tusks in full display. At 5 yards or so, it was unnerving. In this case, unnerving means more pee in the pants. Wholly crap. Adding to the scene, the hippo scared the croc, and when the croc went into the water with a rather chaotic splash, the temptation was to jump forward, which of course is where the hippo was. At this point I have a 470ne in 1 hand, a 458 Lott in the other hand, a friend sitting in the mud with no gun, and Lindon laughing at both of us. Not helpful Lindon. He kept laughing anyway.
Let’s keep looking for crocs. And my dignity.
On the ride back to camp we discussed that first croc again. His head was just too small. Orrrrr. Maybe his body was really, really big, and it made his head look small. Now that’s an idea worth exploring.
We checked again (and again, and again) and decided he was in fact huge. But no shot.
Last day, we tried again and could not find him. We made the usual circuit and returned to his favorite sandbar at 2:30 for the last look of the trip. Lindon finally spotted a tail. On the far sandbar, 200 meters into the river, on the other side of his normal sandbar, quartering away and mostly covered by brush. Our hunt was over.
“Lindon,” I said. “You know what we need? A boat.” Lin is a rather jovial guy and usually smiling, but this time he looked almost devious “a Boat, right” he answered. We checked the village, and no boats were around. Lin’s tracker spotted some fisherman in the river, flagged them down and they rowed feverishly against the current to where we waited on the shore. The 2 white guys waving cash might have helped.
After a brief negotiation, they agreed to use their spirit boat to row us out to the first sand bar, where we should have a 100 meter or less shot at the giant croc. Never heard of a spirit boat, well it’s a boat in spirit only.
Boats, almost be definition, float. A spirit boat doesn’t really float, it just sinks slowly enough that it can be bailed out most of the time. That’s with a crew of 2 Zimbabwean fisherman that weigh about 120lbs each. Turns out, a few hundred pounds (each) of white hunters increases the bailing rate exponentially – but we somehow got to the island nevertheless. Not without attracting some attention.
Back on shore, the crowed gathered. A few local kids at first, and then more and more villagers arrived. It turned into a unique Zambesi Saturday night. Fifty plus villagers, and my friend and observer, watched our hunt from the bank. They watched for a long time. We were only 56 yards away, but the angle and that one lone branch, thwarted our hunt. With light fading, Lin suggested I be ready. Okay, why? Then he whistled.
Head comes up, trigger breaks, gun goes off, croc thumps head a few times, and I empty rest of gun into him for security. Typical crocodile hunt, except for the audience.
Back into the boat, we row around the corner, through a gap in the reeds and onto the sandbar to gather up our croc. Lin’s face goes flush. No croc. The small sandbar was covered in blood, but the croc was obviously in the water. “Ahhh, now what?” I ask. “Well, we gotta find him.” Lin’s comment seemed reasonable. How, exactly, do you look for a wounded croc in the Zambesi River? Well, you should ask that question before you find yourself in the situation, as you might not like the method.
Armed with his shooting sticks as a dredge, Lin started into the water raking the reeds and dredging the bottom looking for the wounded, and likely very much still alive, croc. First he was ankle deep, then knee deep, then thigh deep, then waist deep. “I’ll wait here” seemed reasonable. We then “discussed” the fact that I had the only gun and came to a resolution. I thought Lindon’s language was a little harsh, but we agreed that I would follow Lin into the bloody water, looking for a wounded croc with a stick. Yes, I do sometimes question my own life choices, but it seemed that following him into the bloody water looking for the wounded croc was better than what Lin would otherwise do with the sticks.
We could not find the croc.
The now large crowed on the shore was frantic. But 200 meters of roiling Zambesi River meant we could not hear a dam thing. Enough finger pointing, shouting and arm waving finally sunk in – they could see the croc. As we paddled through the gap in reeds, the croc had swum under what constituted our boat, into the main river and was headed back to the tip of his favorite sandbar. “You put a whole through is chest cavity, he can’t stay underwater” Lin explained, “lets go.” “Go where, exactly?” I thought it was a reasonable question – but again, I was wrong.
Back into the leaking, sinking spirit boat, we tried to get around to the sandbar and get a shot. Shooting from the bow of a leaking boat, bobbing up and down in the roiling water of the Zambesi at a wounded croc is not a workable solution. Back to shore, we can get a shot from there.
Shooting prone of the downslope of the beach with a 458 Lott and a cheering crowed of 50+ people turns out to be not better. And I could not see the bloody croc on the sandbar. Eventually we agreed that Lin would take the shot and I would spot the croc through the glasses.
One look through good binos and I realized my mistake – I was looking for a croc on a sandbar – what I saw was a croc the size of a sandbar! Yep, I did in fact mistake a croc for a sandbar. Good grief.
I shot him again and he was clearly anchored. I shot him three more times anyway.
Back across the Zambesi in our spirit boat to retrieve him. And then back across to get 4 more guys to load him. If you are keeping track, we now have a croc, 2 boatmen, a PH, a hunter and 4 additional guys on a sandbar the size of a kitchen table. Croc tend to twitch even when dead. It’s very unnerving. Apparently so is a shot from a 458 Lott at point blank range when he twitched. I am not proud, but I am alive.
There was only room for the croc, the PH and the boatmen going back. The boat basically sunk taking the croc back to shore.
“Can we swim back?” I asked the trackers. “In that (pointing to the Zambesi), hell no, its full of bloody crocs” they said. “Well, in fairness, I think we shot the bloody croc, so….” Turns out it was not time for humor. We waited. They emptied the boat (of croc and water), rowed back across the river, and finally retrieved us at dusk. I was not keen on spending anymore of my Saturday night on that sandbar after dark.
The viewing area had become a full-blown party by the time we made it back to shore. Native singing, dancing, and celebration for the end of Dumbora. Apparently, the croc had a name. I have no idea what Dumbora means, but he had been eating dogs, goats, cattle, some Zebra and I can only guess what else, for a while – the villagers were not fans of Dumbora; especially the women who were responsible for getting water.
We took a lot of photos.
Then it was time to pay our river guides. We had agreed on twenty dollars. Somewhat long-faced, Lin explained that we had a problem, the boat was beyond repair, sinking to its watery grave in the Zambesi. We had to pay for the boat. “How much,” I asked. “Eighty bucks.” "Seriously," I laughed, I paid the $80, gave them another $20 for good measure and sealed our relationship with a hat. Happy, our boatmen just walked away. Where they went, how far, etc. will remain a mystery.
Dumbora tapped out at over 15 ½ feet long and was missing about 12” of tail. It hard to believe that a croc that big was plying the waters of the middle Zambesi, but we have photos. I also have a full mount being done to commemorate the hunt. I have no idea where to put it.
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as not in the options on the smiley under the posts
And you can never show too many pictures
