This turned out be a great deal longer than I anticipated but there were certain things I couldn't possibly leave out. Get a nice single malt, relax, and and I hope that by the time you finish the drink you might actually enjoy my ramblings. 
Buffalo – Pongola Game Reserve
The email
It was about a week before our departure and there was a palpable buzz in the air. For this year I would have 5 of my favorite people in the world with me and for 4 of them it would be their first time to Africa. The frequency of phone calls and text messages seemed to increase hourly with everyone wanting to make sure they had all their ducks in a row and seeking reassurance that, yes it’s really OK that you’re only taking 3 changes of clothes and 2 pairs of shoes.
Our crew.
The details had been set for a few weeks so as I settled in to check my email I thought it was mildly odd to see Kemp’s message in my inbox. As I read his note I couldn’t suppress the big grin and audible chuckle, followed by “hell yes I’ll take care of a problem buffalo for you”! Kemp is the son of Karl and Rika Landman, who own Pongola Game Reserve in KZN, RSA. He runs all the hunting and tourism on the family land. An all-around great guy and I feel lucky to be able to call him and his family friends. His note explained that there was a young bull at 5 or 6 years old that had been injured. Although it wasn’t life threatening it had given the poor guy the worst of dispositions. He was up to all sorts of mischief and the farm staff were ready to be rid of him. What choice did I have, right??
Off to Africa
The journey to Africa was fairly uneventful but of course exhausting. We endured the bad airline food and accepted our dose of harassment in the SAPS office just like everyone else. When we arrived at Pongola we were met with the typical flurry of initial meet and greet excitement. Once this diminished and we had settled in to all the normal pre hunt chatter, my PH pulled me to the side to discuss ridding the property of the unruly beast. I was going to be hunting Anton Davidson who I had hunted with two times previously and he was just as willing as myself to help out with the task. I mean really, what choice did we have??
The game plan
Anton told me where our quarry had most recently been seen and we agreed that it would be an interesting chase. He was in the adjoining areas of Sondaba and Mhlozi which are regarded as the nastiest the property has to offer. The brush there is by far the thickest to be found and there are hills and valleys that will make your legs and lungs scream for mercy. I have never been told this but I highly suspect there have been a few animals passed in this area simply on the basis of “I ain’t draggin NUTHIN outta this hell”.
It was during this conversation that I started to question what I had signed up for. Kemp came over to offer his opinions on our strategy and after a proper greeting the next thing out of his mouth was “I reckon the thing is mad”. It took my slow southern wits a few minutes to process this and once I figured out what he was telling me the conversation had ended and I didn’t get the chance to ask him to elaborate. It was probably a good thing.
Did I mention that this would be my first buffalo and first DG hunt? Hmmmm.
The plan turned out to be simple.
1. Find his tracks
2. Follow his tracks
3. Blast him
Simple right?? Right……………………….
The Hunt
Day one
Just before daylight we were greeted at the truck by our tracker, the ever friendly and smiling Moosa. I had hunted with him before and had great success so his presence could only be a good thing. He had stocked our cooler, dried the high-seat off for us, and was ready as we handed up our gear. He was seasoned enough that we didn’t have to tell him where we wanted anything to go, he just knew. During our last time together I learned a couple of things about the Zulu. First, they like chocolate. At least this one did. Second, their math works a little differently than the rest of the world. I’m always curious about other cultures and people from different walks of life so I did my best to keep up a conversation with Moosa. At one juncture I asked him how many children he had. His proud reply, “Four. Three girls and two boys.” Thinking I had misunderstood him I mentioned this to Anton later in the trip. At the next convenient moment Anton asked him the same question. Again, his proud reply, “Four. Three girls and two boys.” IDK??
Knowing that searching for this guy’s tracks could be a long and boring day I gave my hunting companion the option of joining one of the other groups for the day. He scoffed and insisted on tagging along muttering something about “never leave your wingman” and off we went. Now here we were freezing to death in the high rack of the Cruiser on the way down the highway. It was still dark and we were dressed for walking in the sun not running 80 KPH in the back of a truck. Note to self; get your coat out of your bag next time you go to this side of the property.
The day proved to be long and uneventful. We rode every road and glassed every hillside looking for any sign of our boy and drew a blank. Sure we found buffalo spoor but only from herds. Our guy was a loner and would not be anywhere around other buffalo. Searching for any buffalo was a task all in itself in this bush but looking for one specific bull all by itself was now starting to seem impossible. Anton had realized how difficult this could be and very wisely suggested a different strategy for the next few days. We would move on to other endeavors and put the word out amongst the staff to keep an eye out and let us know if there was any sign of our boy. He knew they wouldn’t miss any reasonable chance to get rid of this guy.
Day three
As usual we boarded the Cruiser before daylight and started out for the day. Today’s target was bushbuck and we wanted to be in a position to glass two particular hillsides as soon as the sun hit them. We got there in plenty of time and made the climb up the opposing slope to gain a better vantage point. As the sun made it’s way across and down the hill, signs of life started to appear as the animals struggled to shake the chill of the night. Impala, mountain reedbuck, waterbuck bull, a lone female bushbuck, and even a few monkeys came out to say hello but our small gray friend was nowhere to be seen.
Anton and Timber glassing for bushbuck.
We remained vigilant for a couple of hours and just when we started discussing our next move the ringer on Moosa’s phone sounded. I must pause here and say that in my somewhat limited experience in the African bush Moosa is the best tracker I have hunted with, polite, humble, and hard working with the eyes of an eagle and the tracking abilities of the finest hound. BUT he has a habit of carrying his phone with him at all times and occasionally forgetting to turn off the ringer. Therefore this was not necessarily uncommon. After a brief call he and Anton had an exchange in Zulu. Their eyes met one last time and they both turned to start the climb down from our perch. I knew what the call could mean be neither man gave me the anticipated acknowledgement until after a few steps Anton glanced at me and said “let’s go get a buffalo”.
My mind was racing with excitement as we pulled into the drive. Vim (probably spelled Wim or Wem) greeted us right away. He is Kemp’s younger brother and lives on this part of the property taking care of the agricultural activities for the family. We exchanged pleasantries and the next thing out of his mouth was “The damn thing is crazy. All I can say is that if he sees you he is coming! He’s going to charge!” Now, I had already had a fair dose of trepidation stemming from Kemp’s assessment of our boy. For me, Vim’s words validated all the concerns that had crept into my thoughts. I have never been one to shy away from any sort of adventure, especially when there is an element of danger but I am big enough to admit that at this moment I was having to work pretty damn hard to suppress a hell of a lot of anxiety and pure raw nervousness.
The Cruiser came to a stop as a young man dressed in dark pants and a camouflage jacket appeared at the side of the road. He was the equivalent of the game warden on this part of the property and it was he who had found the tracks and would help with the tracking duties. He and Moosa were chatting and Anton was getting enough of what was said to glean that we were only a short walk from where the bull had crossed the road.
Anton and I geared up. He would be carrying his Heym double in 470NE. The big cigar sized cartridges protruding from his culling belt offered a great deal of reassurance that I was in very capable hands. With no small measure of success he had chased every sort of mean and nasty critter you can find in southern and eastern Africa. He had come to terms with all the dangerous 7 several times over. I was carrying his custom CZ 550 in 375 H&H.
Sort of reluctantly we left my great friend Deck behind to “guard” the truck. With nearly a ton of pissed off bovine stomping around nearby we thought it would be best. After all we had to leave all the beer at the truck and who better to look after it. Deck and I have been friends for over 30 years and he was determined to be loyal to the bitter end. I don’t know a better guy.
The hunting party consisted of myself, Anton, Moosa, our new found game warden friend, and Anton’s rat terrier Timber. (I apologize but I have searched every memory cell in my body and I cannot remember the game warden’s name.) After about a quarter mile of quiet, casual walking the trackers pointed out a single buffalo track crossing the road. As we turned in to follow, my tension level was off the chart. Every account of this animal had contained adjectives like mad, nasty, mean, or pissed and here I was turning into a thicket with minimal visibility in pursuit of said demon. What choice did I have? Right?
As we progressed, my tension stayed at about the same level. I was doing my best to keep my body language in check so as not to betray my frame of mind. The rest of the party was going about their respective tasks in a very businesslike manner. Anton maintained his cool and calm demeanor with his rifle held at the ready and his keen eyes always searching for the buffalo. The task of finding and following the tracks was left to the trackers. They worked as a team communicating with a combination of head gestures, hand motions, and only the occasional click so common in the Zulu language. As one of them would find a track he would give a “sign” using this means of communication. Even though I had never witnessed it, it was pretty easy to follow the meaning of each sign, sound, and gesture. Lastly there was Timber. He would move back and forth from the front to the back of our progression never making a sound that might betray us. NO ONE SAID A WORD.
The pace was decent and I was amazed at the trackers work. Keep in mind that they were only following tracks, no other spoor. We passed through every imaginable type of ground cover and for the first hour they never paused for more than a couple of minutes. During this hour I adapted the role of the official ears of the group. I had hunted with Anton and Moosa enough to know that their eyes are second to none and they rely on them almost entirely. Mine, not so much. But I often heard things that they were completely unaware of and had developed an internal sense of pride about it that only I knew about. I’m sure they would have laughed at me if they had known. As it turns out this contribution to the team proved useless on this day.
Nothing had changed with me. My hands were sweating as they held the big gun at the ready and I did my best to walk without sound. My heart was beating strong in my ears making me feel less than helpful on the stalk. Then I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of Anton wiping the sweat from his hands. Wow. If this guy is nervous, what does that say about the task at hand? That’s when I realized that our entire group was on edge. From that moment forward the air only became thicker and harder for my lungs to process even though our level of exertion was minimal.
We made our way down a slope and I could see over the top of the bush ahead that we were approaching an agricultural field which had a fence around it. We got to the edge and the track turned parallel to the fence for a short ways. Suddenly Moosa froze with his eyes locked on a small clump of bush only few steps ahead but he never pointed or acknowledged what he saw or sensed. At the same instant I heard a faint crackle from within the same thicket. The trackers slowly and silently made their way to the side and eventually behind us. Anton and I were a few feet apart, guns ready, him on the right and me on the left with the fence and the trackers right behind us. All was silent for several moments as we listened intently for anything out of the ordinary. We are now roughly two hours into this endeavor and still, NO ONE HAD SAID A WORD. Without the slightest warning all hell breaks loose right beside us. Anton spun around with his cannon, I jumped out of my skin and was just lucky not to drop the big 375. Mind you I did my best to act cool while scrambling to keep my grip. Luckily no shots were fired. Once we regained our composure and realized what had happened we had a brief but very welcome chuckle. It turns out that our K9 companion, Timber, had decided to see if the electric wire at the bottom of the fence was working. As it turns out it was and he let the world know it with a yelp and bark that in that particular moment shook up our world. Miraculously this shattered the tension and for the remainder of the day the entire group relaxed and fell into a methodical rhythm that would help us (me) through a very long day. My hands finally quit sweating and I was able to eke out an occasional smile. I can’t explain how or why this moment of chaos changed the mood but it did and I was grateful.
After all this we still had to sort out whether or not there were any deaf and dumb animals left in our thicket. Anton and I regrouped and made our approach to no avail. A quiet and cautious examination of every square inch of the area only turned up tracks leading out the other side. On we marched.
Several winding miles into this we made it to a dry creek bed we had partially scouted the first day out. One interesting thing we encountered here was an abandoned hyena den. It reminded me of a scene from a movie where the object “beast” has been tracked to a cave where there are bones and partial skeletons littering the entrance. Think “Ghost in the Darkness”. There was all manner of bones lying about. We pried the tusks from the warthog skulls we found and moved on.
The hyena den.
When the track left the old creek bed the underbrush was insane. We were on our hands and knees multiple times. After about the third time Anton turned around in the midst of one of these tunnels, shrugged, smiled, and whispered “Pygmy buffalo?” If Timber had not broken the tension earlier, this environment may have been too much for me. On we marched.
There were several times where we had to stop and circle to pick up and continue the track. The trackers stayed at it and each time there would be some sign from one of them announcing that they had it and it was time to start moving again.
At roughly 3 PM we came to a road and somehow lost the track in the road. All 4 of us searched general vicinity with no success. Anton decided this would be a good time to call one of the farm hands and have them bring our vehicle to us. We had not prepared ourselves to be out this long and had not had an ounce of water since leaving the truck that morning. He then instructed the trackers to continue the search while we waited. Anton and I found a comfortable spot in the shade to wait. I laid down and close my eyes right up until I felt something on my neck. When my grubby fingers pinned it down I knew exactly what it was. A tick. So much for the notion of 20 winks.
Soon enough we heard the Cruiser bumping down the road with the welcome cold water. Believe it or not even after all these hours my old buddy Deck was still hanging in there. Despite having seen another vehicle from our party and being invited to join them he had remained true and once again muttered something about his wingman.
We refreshed ourselves and went to find our trackers. Making our way slowly down the road in the truck knowing that when they heard it they would find us, successful or not. They were thirsty too. We didn’t go far before they materialized at the edge of the road and quickly acknowledged their success.
During the short drive to retrieve our loyal compadres I had summarized the day’s adventures for Deck and wrapped the account with the statement, “about the only thing he hasn’t done to us is take us up one of these freakin’ mountains.” You guessed it, straight up from there.
We started out again with the same rhythmic, methodical pace that made it easy to pass the time. Time?? What time is it?? My watch told me we were going to run out time if we didn’t run up on our guy soon. My instinct was to add urgency to the equation but experience quenched the notion. You just could not rush any part of what we were doing. On we marched.
We were ascending the steep slope diagonally so the grade we were experiencing was less than half of what it would have been if we had truly been going straight up. My feet, legs, and lungs were thankful. Our “hounds” kept to the task as they had all day. Steady as she goes, pausing only when there was a gap in the spoor. Suddenly a loud “bark” broke the silence and the hillside above us erupted as the kudu made their escape only stopping to complain once more before leaving for good. A kudu is always a nice distraction for me. I love ‘em.
The track was going to intersect a road at a point where we could see the crest of the hill and our boy had decided that that’s where he wanted to go. Seeing the road Anton and I moved ahead of the trackers for no real reason other than easier walking. The tracks were readily apparent, we signaled the trackers and finished the climb ahead of them. The road we were on ended into a road that paralleled the crest of the hill. The tracks went straight off the end back into the bush. I was doing my best impersonation of a Zulu tracker when, thank goodness, Moosa arrived to resume his specialty.
Anton and I paused to enjoy the view while Moosa and our game warden took the track westward into the sun. After just a few minutes they were about 50 yards from us and almost out of sight. The brush on the top of the hill was not as bad as what we encountered on the way up but at the moment 50 yards was about as far we could see so we fell in and closed the gap as fast as we could without rattling the woods. We were mere feet from them when Moosa froze like a statue with a hard gaze at the brush ahead, the rest of us did the same. Suddenly his head jerked around and his eyes said it all, they were as wide as dinner plates. As quickly as he had turned to us he turned away and started moving forward in a crouch stepping quickly towards whatever he had seen, the rest of us did the same. I was immediately behind Moosa, then Anton, and our game warden went to the rear. This all continued through the brush for a short ways, Moosa leading with only one focus as it was up to us to keep his pace. I was blundering along trying not to screw things up. I still had not seen anything. All I knew was if the sticks went up whatever Moosa pointed at was getting pounded by the 375. Anton was right on my heels, close enough that if I had hesitated for a split second he would have clobbered me whether he wanted to or not.
All this continued for maybe another 100 yards and somehow the pace was constantly increasing. We had been slowly angling towards the road and eventually dropped down a small bank to get on it. I heard Anton hiss that he was going to cross the road. I still had not seen a thing. I was too focused on everything else going on and trusting Moosa and Anton for position and shooting instructions. In one fluid motion Moosa brought up the sticks, spread them out, placed them, and ducked to the right and turned behind me. As all this started I was bringing the gun up. It found the intersection at the top of the sticks and settled the instant it touched my shoulder. FINALLY!! Our boy appeared from the left and thankfully he was completely unaware of the 4 thugs standing less than a hundred yards away. He was slightly quartering away and to the right. His front feet made it to the center of the road before my eye found the reticle and the gun erupted. At the shot he stumbled, only slightly, and immediately disappeared off the right side of the road. Everyone stood still listening for any hints of where he was headed. Silence.
I stood there a bit stunned by what had transpired over the course of the day. The elation at hearing we now had a clue to his whereabouts. All the near unbearable tension of the morning. The moment of relief when Timber spooked. The moments of doubt when we would lose the track. The thirst. The bloody arms and legs. The many, many moments in the thick bush when I would recall what Kemp and Vim had said. All this had come down to about 5 very rushed minutes of chase and our boy could not have given us a better shot opportunity.
Anton’s left hand slapped me on the shoulder and turned me around to find his right hand extended and a big grin on his face. We all shook hands and laughed excitedly for a few minutes discussing the last few minutes. They had done this enough that they were sure of the shot, as was I. I told Anton that the shot should have taken him on or about the 4th rib from the back and angled forward. All were sure it was a good shot BUT this is a cape buffalo. Well known for being one of the toughest and meanest animals around and this particular one was already in a bad mood.
After an appropriate amount of time the group made it’s way down to where he was standing at the shot and found blood right away. Our guy had turned hard left as soon as he exited the road. There was an old abandoned road that was mostly grown over but still better than what was on either side. The brush was thick on both sides. If he went to the right the slope fell away so fast that all we would be able to do is slide down after him. If he had chosen the left he would have crossed the main road again. Our guy stayed in this track. The trackers kept their eyes to the ground and Anton and I followed as close as we could without tripping them and we kept our eyes up just in case big boy had plans for revenge. After not more that 50 or 60 yards on this grown over track the game warden gave a click, flicked his finger towards the front and he and Moosa instantly moved to the rear. Not a sole made a sound. I could feel the blood rush to set my face on fire and pound in my ears so hard that they hurt. My heart was pounding so hard that despite all my efforts to stand still I was actually rocking back and forth from the pressure. Anton and I stood there as we resolved the giant gray form ahead to be our guy. He was down. Knowing that the dead ones can still kill you, we tossed several rocks at the huge lifeless form. Nothing. We circled to the left so as to approach from behind. This was about as slow as we moved all day. Anton later told me that buffalo just don’t run 60 yards and fall over so he expected him to be alive right up until he gave him a swift kick in the rear. After two or three more kicks he once again turned and congratulated me. A refreshing relief swept through our group. Handshakes, congrats, and thanks went all around.
The trackers went for the vehicle and called for help from some of the farm staff. Anton and I stayed there and discussed the day’s events. The next thing I know I look up to see Deck in the high-rack smiling from ear to ear. He never left his wingman and had done his job well. The beer had remained safe all day. Until now.
I am still in awe of what Anton and the trackers accomplished that day. They tracked the buffalo by hoof track for over ten miles through every sort of ground cover and brush imaginable. All the while knowing the mood of our quarry yet never hesitating at their task. I made sure they were well compensated for their efforts. As for my part, I can’t really take much of credit. All I did was manage NOT to screw things up only to come to the front in the end and take a chip shot. I would not rewrite a single moment of the experience.
An adventure I will never forget.
Our boy.
< The End >
Buffalo – Pongola Game Reserve
The email
It was about a week before our departure and there was a palpable buzz in the air. For this year I would have 5 of my favorite people in the world with me and for 4 of them it would be their first time to Africa. The frequency of phone calls and text messages seemed to increase hourly with everyone wanting to make sure they had all their ducks in a row and seeking reassurance that, yes it’s really OK that you’re only taking 3 changes of clothes and 2 pairs of shoes.
Our crew.
The details had been set for a few weeks so as I settled in to check my email I thought it was mildly odd to see Kemp’s message in my inbox. As I read his note I couldn’t suppress the big grin and audible chuckle, followed by “hell yes I’ll take care of a problem buffalo for you”! Kemp is the son of Karl and Rika Landman, who own Pongola Game Reserve in KZN, RSA. He runs all the hunting and tourism on the family land. An all-around great guy and I feel lucky to be able to call him and his family friends. His note explained that there was a young bull at 5 or 6 years old that had been injured. Although it wasn’t life threatening it had given the poor guy the worst of dispositions. He was up to all sorts of mischief and the farm staff were ready to be rid of him. What choice did I have, right??
Off to Africa
The journey to Africa was fairly uneventful but of course exhausting. We endured the bad airline food and accepted our dose of harassment in the SAPS office just like everyone else. When we arrived at Pongola we were met with the typical flurry of initial meet and greet excitement. Once this diminished and we had settled in to all the normal pre hunt chatter, my PH pulled me to the side to discuss ridding the property of the unruly beast. I was going to be hunting Anton Davidson who I had hunted with two times previously and he was just as willing as myself to help out with the task. I mean really, what choice did we have??
The game plan
Anton told me where our quarry had most recently been seen and we agreed that it would be an interesting chase. He was in the adjoining areas of Sondaba and Mhlozi which are regarded as the nastiest the property has to offer. The brush there is by far the thickest to be found and there are hills and valleys that will make your legs and lungs scream for mercy. I have never been told this but I highly suspect there have been a few animals passed in this area simply on the basis of “I ain’t draggin NUTHIN outta this hell”.
It was during this conversation that I started to question what I had signed up for. Kemp came over to offer his opinions on our strategy and after a proper greeting the next thing out of his mouth was “I reckon the thing is mad”. It took my slow southern wits a few minutes to process this and once I figured out what he was telling me the conversation had ended and I didn’t get the chance to ask him to elaborate. It was probably a good thing.
Did I mention that this would be my first buffalo and first DG hunt? Hmmmm.
The plan turned out to be simple.
1. Find his tracks
2. Follow his tracks
3. Blast him
Simple right?? Right……………………….
The Hunt
Day one
Just before daylight we were greeted at the truck by our tracker, the ever friendly and smiling Moosa. I had hunted with him before and had great success so his presence could only be a good thing. He had stocked our cooler, dried the high-seat off for us, and was ready as we handed up our gear. He was seasoned enough that we didn’t have to tell him where we wanted anything to go, he just knew. During our last time together I learned a couple of things about the Zulu. First, they like chocolate. At least this one did. Second, their math works a little differently than the rest of the world. I’m always curious about other cultures and people from different walks of life so I did my best to keep up a conversation with Moosa. At one juncture I asked him how many children he had. His proud reply, “Four. Three girls and two boys.” Thinking I had misunderstood him I mentioned this to Anton later in the trip. At the next convenient moment Anton asked him the same question. Again, his proud reply, “Four. Three girls and two boys.” IDK??
Knowing that searching for this guy’s tracks could be a long and boring day I gave my hunting companion the option of joining one of the other groups for the day. He scoffed and insisted on tagging along muttering something about “never leave your wingman” and off we went. Now here we were freezing to death in the high rack of the Cruiser on the way down the highway. It was still dark and we were dressed for walking in the sun not running 80 KPH in the back of a truck. Note to self; get your coat out of your bag next time you go to this side of the property.
The day proved to be long and uneventful. We rode every road and glassed every hillside looking for any sign of our boy and drew a blank. Sure we found buffalo spoor but only from herds. Our guy was a loner and would not be anywhere around other buffalo. Searching for any buffalo was a task all in itself in this bush but looking for one specific bull all by itself was now starting to seem impossible. Anton had realized how difficult this could be and very wisely suggested a different strategy for the next few days. We would move on to other endeavors and put the word out amongst the staff to keep an eye out and let us know if there was any sign of our boy. He knew they wouldn’t miss any reasonable chance to get rid of this guy.
Day three
As usual we boarded the Cruiser before daylight and started out for the day. Today’s target was bushbuck and we wanted to be in a position to glass two particular hillsides as soon as the sun hit them. We got there in plenty of time and made the climb up the opposing slope to gain a better vantage point. As the sun made it’s way across and down the hill, signs of life started to appear as the animals struggled to shake the chill of the night. Impala, mountain reedbuck, waterbuck bull, a lone female bushbuck, and even a few monkeys came out to say hello but our small gray friend was nowhere to be seen.
Anton and Timber glassing for bushbuck.
We remained vigilant for a couple of hours and just when we started discussing our next move the ringer on Moosa’s phone sounded. I must pause here and say that in my somewhat limited experience in the African bush Moosa is the best tracker I have hunted with, polite, humble, and hard working with the eyes of an eagle and the tracking abilities of the finest hound. BUT he has a habit of carrying his phone with him at all times and occasionally forgetting to turn off the ringer. Therefore this was not necessarily uncommon. After a brief call he and Anton had an exchange in Zulu. Their eyes met one last time and they both turned to start the climb down from our perch. I knew what the call could mean be neither man gave me the anticipated acknowledgement until after a few steps Anton glanced at me and said “let’s go get a buffalo”.
My mind was racing with excitement as we pulled into the drive. Vim (probably spelled Wim or Wem) greeted us right away. He is Kemp’s younger brother and lives on this part of the property taking care of the agricultural activities for the family. We exchanged pleasantries and the next thing out of his mouth was “The damn thing is crazy. All I can say is that if he sees you he is coming! He’s going to charge!” Now, I had already had a fair dose of trepidation stemming from Kemp’s assessment of our boy. For me, Vim’s words validated all the concerns that had crept into my thoughts. I have never been one to shy away from any sort of adventure, especially when there is an element of danger but I am big enough to admit that at this moment I was having to work pretty damn hard to suppress a hell of a lot of anxiety and pure raw nervousness.
The Cruiser came to a stop as a young man dressed in dark pants and a camouflage jacket appeared at the side of the road. He was the equivalent of the game warden on this part of the property and it was he who had found the tracks and would help with the tracking duties. He and Moosa were chatting and Anton was getting enough of what was said to glean that we were only a short walk from where the bull had crossed the road.
Anton and I geared up. He would be carrying his Heym double in 470NE. The big cigar sized cartridges protruding from his culling belt offered a great deal of reassurance that I was in very capable hands. With no small measure of success he had chased every sort of mean and nasty critter you can find in southern and eastern Africa. He had come to terms with all the dangerous 7 several times over. I was carrying his custom CZ 550 in 375 H&H.
Sort of reluctantly we left my great friend Deck behind to “guard” the truck. With nearly a ton of pissed off bovine stomping around nearby we thought it would be best. After all we had to leave all the beer at the truck and who better to look after it. Deck and I have been friends for over 30 years and he was determined to be loyal to the bitter end. I don’t know a better guy.
The hunting party consisted of myself, Anton, Moosa, our new found game warden friend, and Anton’s rat terrier Timber. (I apologize but I have searched every memory cell in my body and I cannot remember the game warden’s name.) After about a quarter mile of quiet, casual walking the trackers pointed out a single buffalo track crossing the road. As we turned in to follow, my tension level was off the chart. Every account of this animal had contained adjectives like mad, nasty, mean, or pissed and here I was turning into a thicket with minimal visibility in pursuit of said demon. What choice did I have? Right?
As we progressed, my tension stayed at about the same level. I was doing my best to keep my body language in check so as not to betray my frame of mind. The rest of the party was going about their respective tasks in a very businesslike manner. Anton maintained his cool and calm demeanor with his rifle held at the ready and his keen eyes always searching for the buffalo. The task of finding and following the tracks was left to the trackers. They worked as a team communicating with a combination of head gestures, hand motions, and only the occasional click so common in the Zulu language. As one of them would find a track he would give a “sign” using this means of communication. Even though I had never witnessed it, it was pretty easy to follow the meaning of each sign, sound, and gesture. Lastly there was Timber. He would move back and forth from the front to the back of our progression never making a sound that might betray us. NO ONE SAID A WORD.
The pace was decent and I was amazed at the trackers work. Keep in mind that they were only following tracks, no other spoor. We passed through every imaginable type of ground cover and for the first hour they never paused for more than a couple of minutes. During this hour I adapted the role of the official ears of the group. I had hunted with Anton and Moosa enough to know that their eyes are second to none and they rely on them almost entirely. Mine, not so much. But I often heard things that they were completely unaware of and had developed an internal sense of pride about it that only I knew about. I’m sure they would have laughed at me if they had known. As it turns out this contribution to the team proved useless on this day.
Nothing had changed with me. My hands were sweating as they held the big gun at the ready and I did my best to walk without sound. My heart was beating strong in my ears making me feel less than helpful on the stalk. Then I looked to my left and caught a glimpse of Anton wiping the sweat from his hands. Wow. If this guy is nervous, what does that say about the task at hand? That’s when I realized that our entire group was on edge. From that moment forward the air only became thicker and harder for my lungs to process even though our level of exertion was minimal.
We made our way down a slope and I could see over the top of the bush ahead that we were approaching an agricultural field which had a fence around it. We got to the edge and the track turned parallel to the fence for a short ways. Suddenly Moosa froze with his eyes locked on a small clump of bush only few steps ahead but he never pointed or acknowledged what he saw or sensed. At the same instant I heard a faint crackle from within the same thicket. The trackers slowly and silently made their way to the side and eventually behind us. Anton and I were a few feet apart, guns ready, him on the right and me on the left with the fence and the trackers right behind us. All was silent for several moments as we listened intently for anything out of the ordinary. We are now roughly two hours into this endeavor and still, NO ONE HAD SAID A WORD. Without the slightest warning all hell breaks loose right beside us. Anton spun around with his cannon, I jumped out of my skin and was just lucky not to drop the big 375. Mind you I did my best to act cool while scrambling to keep my grip. Luckily no shots were fired. Once we regained our composure and realized what had happened we had a brief but very welcome chuckle. It turns out that our K9 companion, Timber, had decided to see if the electric wire at the bottom of the fence was working. As it turns out it was and he let the world know it with a yelp and bark that in that particular moment shook up our world. Miraculously this shattered the tension and for the remainder of the day the entire group relaxed and fell into a methodical rhythm that would help us (me) through a very long day. My hands finally quit sweating and I was able to eke out an occasional smile. I can’t explain how or why this moment of chaos changed the mood but it did and I was grateful.
After all this we still had to sort out whether or not there were any deaf and dumb animals left in our thicket. Anton and I regrouped and made our approach to no avail. A quiet and cautious examination of every square inch of the area only turned up tracks leading out the other side. On we marched.
Several winding miles into this we made it to a dry creek bed we had partially scouted the first day out. One interesting thing we encountered here was an abandoned hyena den. It reminded me of a scene from a movie where the object “beast” has been tracked to a cave where there are bones and partial skeletons littering the entrance. Think “Ghost in the Darkness”. There was all manner of bones lying about. We pried the tusks from the warthog skulls we found and moved on.
The hyena den.
When the track left the old creek bed the underbrush was insane. We were on our hands and knees multiple times. After about the third time Anton turned around in the midst of one of these tunnels, shrugged, smiled, and whispered “Pygmy buffalo?” If Timber had not broken the tension earlier, this environment may have been too much for me. On we marched.
There were several times where we had to stop and circle to pick up and continue the track. The trackers stayed at it and each time there would be some sign from one of them announcing that they had it and it was time to start moving again.
At roughly 3 PM we came to a road and somehow lost the track in the road. All 4 of us searched general vicinity with no success. Anton decided this would be a good time to call one of the farm hands and have them bring our vehicle to us. We had not prepared ourselves to be out this long and had not had an ounce of water since leaving the truck that morning. He then instructed the trackers to continue the search while we waited. Anton and I found a comfortable spot in the shade to wait. I laid down and close my eyes right up until I felt something on my neck. When my grubby fingers pinned it down I knew exactly what it was. A tick. So much for the notion of 20 winks.
Soon enough we heard the Cruiser bumping down the road with the welcome cold water. Believe it or not even after all these hours my old buddy Deck was still hanging in there. Despite having seen another vehicle from our party and being invited to join them he had remained true and once again muttered something about his wingman.
We refreshed ourselves and went to find our trackers. Making our way slowly down the road in the truck knowing that when they heard it they would find us, successful or not. They were thirsty too. We didn’t go far before they materialized at the edge of the road and quickly acknowledged their success.
During the short drive to retrieve our loyal compadres I had summarized the day’s adventures for Deck and wrapped the account with the statement, “about the only thing he hasn’t done to us is take us up one of these freakin’ mountains.” You guessed it, straight up from there.
We started out again with the same rhythmic, methodical pace that made it easy to pass the time. Time?? What time is it?? My watch told me we were going to run out time if we didn’t run up on our guy soon. My instinct was to add urgency to the equation but experience quenched the notion. You just could not rush any part of what we were doing. On we marched.
We were ascending the steep slope diagonally so the grade we were experiencing was less than half of what it would have been if we had truly been going straight up. My feet, legs, and lungs were thankful. Our “hounds” kept to the task as they had all day. Steady as she goes, pausing only when there was a gap in the spoor. Suddenly a loud “bark” broke the silence and the hillside above us erupted as the kudu made their escape only stopping to complain once more before leaving for good. A kudu is always a nice distraction for me. I love ‘em.
The track was going to intersect a road at a point where we could see the crest of the hill and our boy had decided that that’s where he wanted to go. Seeing the road Anton and I moved ahead of the trackers for no real reason other than easier walking. The tracks were readily apparent, we signaled the trackers and finished the climb ahead of them. The road we were on ended into a road that paralleled the crest of the hill. The tracks went straight off the end back into the bush. I was doing my best impersonation of a Zulu tracker when, thank goodness, Moosa arrived to resume his specialty.
Anton and I paused to enjoy the view while Moosa and our game warden took the track westward into the sun. After just a few minutes they were about 50 yards from us and almost out of sight. The brush on the top of the hill was not as bad as what we encountered on the way up but at the moment 50 yards was about as far we could see so we fell in and closed the gap as fast as we could without rattling the woods. We were mere feet from them when Moosa froze like a statue with a hard gaze at the brush ahead, the rest of us did the same. Suddenly his head jerked around and his eyes said it all, they were as wide as dinner plates. As quickly as he had turned to us he turned away and started moving forward in a crouch stepping quickly towards whatever he had seen, the rest of us did the same. I was immediately behind Moosa, then Anton, and our game warden went to the rear. This all continued through the brush for a short ways, Moosa leading with only one focus as it was up to us to keep his pace. I was blundering along trying not to screw things up. I still had not seen anything. All I knew was if the sticks went up whatever Moosa pointed at was getting pounded by the 375. Anton was right on my heels, close enough that if I had hesitated for a split second he would have clobbered me whether he wanted to or not.
All this continued for maybe another 100 yards and somehow the pace was constantly increasing. We had been slowly angling towards the road and eventually dropped down a small bank to get on it. I heard Anton hiss that he was going to cross the road. I still had not seen a thing. I was too focused on everything else going on and trusting Moosa and Anton for position and shooting instructions. In one fluid motion Moosa brought up the sticks, spread them out, placed them, and ducked to the right and turned behind me. As all this started I was bringing the gun up. It found the intersection at the top of the sticks and settled the instant it touched my shoulder. FINALLY!! Our boy appeared from the left and thankfully he was completely unaware of the 4 thugs standing less than a hundred yards away. He was slightly quartering away and to the right. His front feet made it to the center of the road before my eye found the reticle and the gun erupted. At the shot he stumbled, only slightly, and immediately disappeared off the right side of the road. Everyone stood still listening for any hints of where he was headed. Silence.
I stood there a bit stunned by what had transpired over the course of the day. The elation at hearing we now had a clue to his whereabouts. All the near unbearable tension of the morning. The moment of relief when Timber spooked. The moments of doubt when we would lose the track. The thirst. The bloody arms and legs. The many, many moments in the thick bush when I would recall what Kemp and Vim had said. All this had come down to about 5 very rushed minutes of chase and our boy could not have given us a better shot opportunity.
Anton’s left hand slapped me on the shoulder and turned me around to find his right hand extended and a big grin on his face. We all shook hands and laughed excitedly for a few minutes discussing the last few minutes. They had done this enough that they were sure of the shot, as was I. I told Anton that the shot should have taken him on or about the 4th rib from the back and angled forward. All were sure it was a good shot BUT this is a cape buffalo. Well known for being one of the toughest and meanest animals around and this particular one was already in a bad mood.
After an appropriate amount of time the group made it’s way down to where he was standing at the shot and found blood right away. Our guy had turned hard left as soon as he exited the road. There was an old abandoned road that was mostly grown over but still better than what was on either side. The brush was thick on both sides. If he went to the right the slope fell away so fast that all we would be able to do is slide down after him. If he had chosen the left he would have crossed the main road again. Our guy stayed in this track. The trackers kept their eyes to the ground and Anton and I followed as close as we could without tripping them and we kept our eyes up just in case big boy had plans for revenge. After not more that 50 or 60 yards on this grown over track the game warden gave a click, flicked his finger towards the front and he and Moosa instantly moved to the rear. Not a sole made a sound. I could feel the blood rush to set my face on fire and pound in my ears so hard that they hurt. My heart was pounding so hard that despite all my efforts to stand still I was actually rocking back and forth from the pressure. Anton and I stood there as we resolved the giant gray form ahead to be our guy. He was down. Knowing that the dead ones can still kill you, we tossed several rocks at the huge lifeless form. Nothing. We circled to the left so as to approach from behind. This was about as slow as we moved all day. Anton later told me that buffalo just don’t run 60 yards and fall over so he expected him to be alive right up until he gave him a swift kick in the rear. After two or three more kicks he once again turned and congratulated me. A refreshing relief swept through our group. Handshakes, congrats, and thanks went all around.
The trackers went for the vehicle and called for help from some of the farm staff. Anton and I stayed there and discussed the day’s events. The next thing I know I look up to see Deck in the high-rack smiling from ear to ear. He never left his wingman and had done his job well. The beer had remained safe all day. Until now.
I am still in awe of what Anton and the trackers accomplished that day. They tracked the buffalo by hoof track for over ten miles through every sort of ground cover and brush imaginable. All the while knowing the mood of our quarry yet never hesitating at their task. I made sure they were well compensated for their efforts. As for my part, I can’t really take much of credit. All I did was manage NOT to screw things up only to come to the front in the end and take a chip shot. I would not rewrite a single moment of the experience.
An adventure I will never forget.
Our boy.
< The End >
