TOBY458
AH legend
- Joined
- Jan 23, 2014
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- 4,634
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- Location
- Madison Georgia, USA
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As I write this, it is 4:06 AM EST in Georgia, USA. You could say I am a bit Jet Lagged. I returned from the Kalahari yesterday, and even though the flight home offered very little sleep, somehow I'm still not sleepy.
Part of the reason for my unrest is a scenario that keeps playing in my head. The scenario of a wounded Cape Buffalo, a jammed rifle, and my PH yelling "SHOOT!!! SHOOT!!!!" But let's back up a bit.
The sixth day, of my seven day hunt, started like the previous five days, with a 7am breakfast, and a 7:30 departure. This day was to be my first day hunting Cape Buffalo during this particular hunt.
We started by driving about the 12,000 acre preserve in a Toyota Land Cruiser, looking for Buffalo spoor. For awhile it seemed the buffalo knew we were in pursuit, and didn't care to play along with our game. For not only can they run, they can hide as well. It's amazing how something so big and black, can seemingly dissapear, behind a drought choked thorn bush. However, after a few more trips around the block, the buffalo finally decided to play along, and the chase was on.
We spotted a small heard of Buffalo. A mixture of both hard and soft bossed bulls. And soon we heard the sound of brush breaking, and saw a huge cloud of sand dust, as the heard thundered off into the distance. This was to be a reoccurring theme, due to the swirling wind that brought the dreaded scent of humans to their nostrils.
A hard, fast walk on the spoor, behind my PH and his tracker, soon brought us close to the heard again, but alas, the wind changed and we were off again!
This little cat and mouse game continued for what seems like several hours, until finally we closed in, undetected, from the downwind side. If the wind would just behave, I would get my opportunity...
We lined ourselves up, watching a long, narrow opening in the brush, in anticipation for the heard to cross. This would take several minutes, that seemed like an eternity.
One soft bull, then another, then another, crossed the path. Still we could hear more coming. With my 375 H&H on the sticks, I was ready for action. I was loaded with 300 grain Barnes TSX bullets, so I knew I had enough gun in hand to take care of business, but a small voice in my head kept questioning why I chose to leave my 416 back at camp.
Then finally a large, hard bossed bull stepped out in a cloud of dust, while only giving me a quick, glaring stair, before turning and offering me a very steep angling shot at his vitals. In hind sight I wish I had held my shot, but in a split second decision, I fired.
Dust flew off the side of the bull's huge ribcage, about halfway up his body, and midway back of his chest, angling forward into his lung. And the word "lung" not "lungs" is where the rodeo began.
Soon another PH showed up for what would be a 6 mile tracking excursion, filled with buffalo blood, thorns, my blood, more thorns, sometimes anger, sometimes pure exhilaration, and the eminent thought of either losing my buffalo, or losing my life. For this was no longer just a story in the pages of a Ruark book, I was really on the track of a wounded Cape Buffalo, in the thick bush of Africa. I was alive. My dream had became reality. But there was work to do...
The tracks and blood trail seemed to go on forever. How could an animal lose so much blood and keep going? Sometimes circling us, keeping only a small, brush filled distance between him and us. Still we pushed ahead. Then finally, we caught a glimpse of black, and heard the thundering of hooves once again. He was alone, not able to keep up with his compadres, but still somehow full of life.
Would we ever catch up to him? Off we go again.
A couple more miles and the song remains the same. More blood, more sweat, and more fear. Fear of losing an animal that I wounded, and fear of him enacting his revenge on us. Either was unacceptable in my mind.
My PH turned to me and asked if I was still alright, after several miles of hard, fast walking. I mentioned that a drink of water would be nice, but other than that, I was no worse for wear. He agreed, and called for a truck to meet us on the road we were about to cross in the next half mile or so. With the water, the truck brought a savior. A savior of what would become one of the most memorable days of my life. "Ruger" was the savior's name. A small terrier, with the heart of a Lion and the courage of a Hyena. My PH attached a leash to his collar, and we were on the trail again.
Once we regained the spoor, Ruger was set free.
A very small time later, we heard the yipping of the bayed terrier, and the chase began. As we got closer, I readied my rifle, PH Johan readied his CZ 458 Lott, and my other PH, Seun, checked the chambers of his Merkel 470 double.
We were well armed. At least that's what I thought.... For it would turn out that only they were well armed.
As we approached the wounded buffalo, my sweating palms were wrapped tightly around the stock of my Sako 85 Kodiak, 375 H&H rifle. Once the bull was spotted behind a curtain of thorn bushes, I could only see the outline of his massive body. But the devil is in the details. I could see the blood in his nostrils, but not his head. I could see his whole body, but not his shoulder. Seun and Johan yelled out SHOOT HIM! So I did. The bull showed only a small interest in my deflected shot to his brisket, so I re......
DAMNIT!!!! MY RIFLE IS JAMMED!!!!
I was aware of the fact that this Sako rifle had done this very same thing on a previous buffalo hunt in Australia, but I thought I would remember to take the needed precautions to prevent it from happening again. The empty 375 H&H case had hit the turret of the Leupold scope and fell back into the loading port of the rifle. Not knowing what had happened, I slammed the bolt forward, causing the empty shell casing to lodge itself tightly against the loaded cartridge in the action.
Now we had a wounded buffalo in front of us. A small terrier doing his best to keep him at bay, and both of my PH's screaming SHOOT!!! SHOOT!!!
But...I could not shoot. All I could do was cuss. Cuss myself for not following my own instincts. Cuss the questionable shot I took to begin this whole affair. Cuss this God Damned rifle for letting me down. Cuss the fact that my PH was going to have to kill this buffalo for me. Then the inevitable happened... The 470 Merkel sent a 500 grain solid through the bull's massive boss.
My hunt was over.
Lesson learned.....
Part of the reason for my unrest is a scenario that keeps playing in my head. The scenario of a wounded Cape Buffalo, a jammed rifle, and my PH yelling "SHOOT!!! SHOOT!!!!" But let's back up a bit.
The sixth day, of my seven day hunt, started like the previous five days, with a 7am breakfast, and a 7:30 departure. This day was to be my first day hunting Cape Buffalo during this particular hunt.
We started by driving about the 12,000 acre preserve in a Toyota Land Cruiser, looking for Buffalo spoor. For awhile it seemed the buffalo knew we were in pursuit, and didn't care to play along with our game. For not only can they run, they can hide as well. It's amazing how something so big and black, can seemingly dissapear, behind a drought choked thorn bush. However, after a few more trips around the block, the buffalo finally decided to play along, and the chase was on.
We spotted a small heard of Buffalo. A mixture of both hard and soft bossed bulls. And soon we heard the sound of brush breaking, and saw a huge cloud of sand dust, as the heard thundered off into the distance. This was to be a reoccurring theme, due to the swirling wind that brought the dreaded scent of humans to their nostrils.
A hard, fast walk on the spoor, behind my PH and his tracker, soon brought us close to the heard again, but alas, the wind changed and we were off again!
This little cat and mouse game continued for what seems like several hours, until finally we closed in, undetected, from the downwind side. If the wind would just behave, I would get my opportunity...
We lined ourselves up, watching a long, narrow opening in the brush, in anticipation for the heard to cross. This would take several minutes, that seemed like an eternity.
One soft bull, then another, then another, crossed the path. Still we could hear more coming. With my 375 H&H on the sticks, I was ready for action. I was loaded with 300 grain Barnes TSX bullets, so I knew I had enough gun in hand to take care of business, but a small voice in my head kept questioning why I chose to leave my 416 back at camp.
Then finally a large, hard bossed bull stepped out in a cloud of dust, while only giving me a quick, glaring stair, before turning and offering me a very steep angling shot at his vitals. In hind sight I wish I had held my shot, but in a split second decision, I fired.
Dust flew off the side of the bull's huge ribcage, about halfway up his body, and midway back of his chest, angling forward into his lung. And the word "lung" not "lungs" is where the rodeo began.
Soon another PH showed up for what would be a 6 mile tracking excursion, filled with buffalo blood, thorns, my blood, more thorns, sometimes anger, sometimes pure exhilaration, and the eminent thought of either losing my buffalo, or losing my life. For this was no longer just a story in the pages of a Ruark book, I was really on the track of a wounded Cape Buffalo, in the thick bush of Africa. I was alive. My dream had became reality. But there was work to do...
The tracks and blood trail seemed to go on forever. How could an animal lose so much blood and keep going? Sometimes circling us, keeping only a small, brush filled distance between him and us. Still we pushed ahead. Then finally, we caught a glimpse of black, and heard the thundering of hooves once again. He was alone, not able to keep up with his compadres, but still somehow full of life.
Would we ever catch up to him? Off we go again.
A couple more miles and the song remains the same. More blood, more sweat, and more fear. Fear of losing an animal that I wounded, and fear of him enacting his revenge on us. Either was unacceptable in my mind.
My PH turned to me and asked if I was still alright, after several miles of hard, fast walking. I mentioned that a drink of water would be nice, but other than that, I was no worse for wear. He agreed, and called for a truck to meet us on the road we were about to cross in the next half mile or so. With the water, the truck brought a savior. A savior of what would become one of the most memorable days of my life. "Ruger" was the savior's name. A small terrier, with the heart of a Lion and the courage of a Hyena. My PH attached a leash to his collar, and we were on the trail again.
Once we regained the spoor, Ruger was set free.
A very small time later, we heard the yipping of the bayed terrier, and the chase began. As we got closer, I readied my rifle, PH Johan readied his CZ 458 Lott, and my other PH, Seun, checked the chambers of his Merkel 470 double.
We were well armed. At least that's what I thought.... For it would turn out that only they were well armed.
As we approached the wounded buffalo, my sweating palms were wrapped tightly around the stock of my Sako 85 Kodiak, 375 H&H rifle. Once the bull was spotted behind a curtain of thorn bushes, I could only see the outline of his massive body. But the devil is in the details. I could see the blood in his nostrils, but not his head. I could see his whole body, but not his shoulder. Seun and Johan yelled out SHOOT HIM! So I did. The bull showed only a small interest in my deflected shot to his brisket, so I re......
DAMNIT!!!! MY RIFLE IS JAMMED!!!!
I was aware of the fact that this Sako rifle had done this very same thing on a previous buffalo hunt in Australia, but I thought I would remember to take the needed precautions to prevent it from happening again. The empty 375 H&H case had hit the turret of the Leupold scope and fell back into the loading port of the rifle. Not knowing what had happened, I slammed the bolt forward, causing the empty shell casing to lodge itself tightly against the loaded cartridge in the action.
Now we had a wounded buffalo in front of us. A small terrier doing his best to keep him at bay, and both of my PH's screaming SHOOT!!! SHOOT!!!
But...I could not shoot. All I could do was cuss. Cuss myself for not following my own instincts. Cuss the questionable shot I took to begin this whole affair. Cuss this God Damned rifle for letting me down. Cuss the fact that my PH was going to have to kill this buffalo for me. Then the inevitable happened... The 470 Merkel sent a 500 grain solid through the bull's massive boss.
My hunt was over.
Lesson learned.....
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happens.
