SOUTH AFRICA: Getting To Africa

[Rubberhead]

6/26/22

A 4-hour delay at the gate in Atlanta cost me my chance to see the Kalahari from the air. The scheduled 7 pm departure on Saturday turned into a 9 pm landing local Johannesburg time the following day. Needless to say, it was a long day but it was good to finally hear, "Welcome to Johannesburg" over the plane's intercom.

After the boarding doors were opened, I stayed with the herd while we got our forehead temperatures checked and passports stamped. Hunters, like everyone else, got their normal luggage first then broke off into their own group to get their guns from RSA authorities. I had expected at least one hiccup but everything was quick, easy and flawless. South Africa certainly understands the value of hunting tourism.

My PH met me on the way to the office where guns were being handed to their rightful owners. Whether on purpose or not, he certainly looked the part. Green shorts, a long-sleeved shirt in a slightly different green, and a well-worn leather hat with a sweat-stained band. His South African accent completed the package.

The three-hour drive through the South African dark was somewhat anticlimactic. There were no rogue elephants on the side of the road nor lions darting across. In the dark, Africa didn’t look that different from some familiar places in South Carolina. Other than the right drive car the only real betrayal of which hemisphere I was in came when the PH stopped at a midnight gas station to fill up. The attendant wasn’t in a hurry to be helpful. Nick, the PH, told me that South Africa doesn’t allow drivers folks to “throw their own petrol”. He jumped out and spoke, what I found out later was, in Zulu to the attendant. Of course, I didn’t understand a single word but the tone was unmistakable – something like “hey, what are you doing? Get your lazy butt over here and pump some gas.” It was matched by the tone of the retort and a back-and-forth started that was clearly some sort of banter. They were both quick with replies. A mutual respect seemed to develop and before long the gas was pumped, a credit card scanned, and we were back on the road.

Finally, a more substantive clue that I was nowhere near Kansas. As we turned into the property I’d be hunting, a surprisingly large Spring Hare hopped across the side road inadvertently keeping itself centered in the turning headlights. I’m a little embarrassed to say that my gut knotted with some sort of childish excitement. I came a long way to recapture that feeling so I allowed it to course through every fiber. It was a long slow drive through the property but we finally reached the camp. The pit in the boma was lit up with a roaring fire that felt good in the June winter cold. It was close to 1 am local time and I was the only client in camp but its three other inhabitants, the chef, housekeeper and tracker/skinner named Big John, were up to welcome me with a traditional African greeting and a much-appreciated lemon-aid type drink. Big John, by the way, is aptly named.

We talked for a while and I was shown my tent. By the time I organized my belongings for tomorrow’s hunt it was 3:00 am. The last thing I did before laying down was let my handheld GPS get a signal lock so I can find the camp on map when I get home. I use the GPS as an alarm clock too so the satellite lock ensures that it has got the right time. I had only 7 days on the ground in Africa and I didn’t want to miss a single minute of it.

(I wrote a lot and took a lot of photos. Not knowing how much the AH forums will allow into one post, I'll break it up by day. I hope it isn't too much.)

 

[Rubberhead]

June 27, 2022 - Day 1 in Africa

6/27/22
A chorus of unfamiliar bird sounds easily invaded my “Hemingway” walled tent and woke me before the alarm clock. Africa in the daylight is everything I imagined it was going to be. The birds are even better, more numerous and more beautiful. I quickly figured out that even though I had spent a great deal of time studying the avian life I expected to encounter, I really wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. There was a strikingly handsome bird on the path from my tent to the much larger dining tent. I recognized the bird from pictures but couldn’t recall the name. I know now it was a White-throated Robin-chat. My first African bird.

While I wasn’t prepared for the birds, I was ready for the breakfast of mushrooms, over well eggs and a really exceptional local sausage. The PH and I sat at table and ate breakfast while the others ate in the kitchen. I don't usually eat breakfast but my body fully accepted this early offer. Maybe I was just that hungry or, maybe, since it was only half past midnight Moncks Corner time, my stomach just thought it was getting a better than usual midnight snack. Either way, I felt much better.

The safari company I had booked specifically assigned Nick as my Professional Hunter since he was a keen birder. Birds were a close second on this trip to the hunting I had planned. My hunting list was pretty short – Blue Wildebeest, Zebra, Impala, and Warthog. If I see an ostrich, steenbok or duiker by chance, I’d take them. If I finished early, I’d swing for the fences on a difficult-to-hunt bushbuck. My bird list would consist of whatever I could find during and between hunts. After breakfast we headed to the range to make sure the rifle was still true.

The road to the rifle range was short drive through some of the area I’d be hunting. I couldn’t possibly write down everything that struck me as new and wonderful. One of the groups of birds I wanted most to see, the hornbills, were out in numbers. Red-billed and Southern Yellow-billed Hornbills took turns guiding the truck down the road. There are three species of hornbill in the area and I had already seen two of those. I hoped it was a good omen.

We met Big John at the range and I shot with the over barrel first at a 100 meter target - low and right about ½” inch. The under barrel was dead center and low about ½” away from the first shot. Nick and Big John hooted and hollered. Two out of three of us left the range with great confidence in my shooting. I was the only one who harbored any doubts. What I will never doubt, though, is my own ability to mess up an easy shot at game. I told Nick about my gun's personality quirks where I have to shoot a 150 grain bullet in the under barrel and a 180 grain bullet in the over barrel. I'm a bit of a Nosler bullet fanboy so I buy my 180 grain loads from Nosler and my 150 grain rounds are Federal Premiums loaded with Nosler bullets. The Federals have a nickel case and the Noslers are traditional brass so it's easy to keep the two loads separated. Gold (brass) on top, silver on bottom. I hate that it's come to that but after two years, I do it without thinking. In the states, I usually shoot Nosler Ballistic Tips but I carried Accubond's for my Africa trip. They shoot identical to the BTs so I wasn't surprised with the good grouping.

We began our first hunt with Big John driving and Nick and I on the back of his perfectly African Toyota set-up. Two well-padded jump seats sit behind a roof tray with a rifle rack. Just behind the cab sits a massive winch that I hoped to get to see in use. My rifle rode in the rack while Nick’s .375 H&H stayed in the cab next to John.

We went a ways before an almost unnoticeable hand gesture from Nick got Big John to stop the truck. The PH baled over the side with his shooting sticks. I handed down my rifle and climbed down myself. I was slow and careful not because I’m old and doddering. Not yet anyway. I just didn’t want a fall resulting from the unfamiliar to cost me the rest of my time in the Dark Continent. John continued down the red dirt road in the truck leaving Nick and I to a blind stalk. There are two of the Big Five in the area, Leopard and a lot of Cape Buffalo, so it didn’t go unnoticed that Nick left his own rifle in the truck.

We started into what they call “thornveld” - sickle bush and about a dozen varieties of acacia. Animal droppings of all sizes, shapes and textures were everywhere – it’s literally impossible to take a step without walking in poop. I normally avoid walking through poop but that’s something I’d have to get over pretty quickly if I wanted to see Africa instead of just watching my feet. We came up on a sow warthog and some juveniles. Even after Nick pointed them out, it took a while before I could make them out myself.

My mind did a backflip. The sensation was kind of like standing up too quickly. This wasn’t a movie or a photograph. It wasn’t one of the Youtube safari videos that I had been watching too many of lately. It was me with a gun and a PH actually standing on African soil staring at an African warthog. Surreal, again. If there were a stronger word I’d use it now but that’s all I got, “surreal”.

I was kind of glad it wasn’t a big boar. I realized that I wasn’t mentally prepared to start the shooting part of my safari just yet. I wanted the newness of this experience to more thoroughly play itself out before getting on the sticks.

I don’t know if it is just my PH or if it’s more universal, but it was treated like a sin to purposefully disrupt the life of the animals we encountered while on the ground so I followed Nick’s hand signals and whispers to stay completely unnoticed until the pigs moved off on their own. After some time, though, the light wind swirled and the sow took the opportunity to train her young ones on what to do when they catch even the slightest scent of man on the wind. Following warthog protocol, her back straightened and her tail went up. Off she went with the little ones right behind her. A yearling boar, a bit slow on the take-up, allowed me time to get my binoculars up and get a better look. Again, I reminded myself that “I’m actually in Africa.”

We kept going and I noticed a Sable bull that Nick has missed. I pointed it out and he leaned back a little to see it. I didn’t want to be a smart Alec but was glad for a chance to show Nick that I do have some experience in the woods too. It’s a delicate balance between gaining the PH’s trust as someone with legitimate hunting experience and an attempt to show him up. To prove a point that I might have missed that balancing point my PH sped up and chose a rugged, thorny path. I had to keep my eyes down and three feet in front of me in order to not trip or crack a branch. Point made; Nick slowed the pace some to allow me to steal a few glimpses of Africa between steps. I can’t remember everything we saw but it was all at distance and through thick brush. I was certainly thinking, for all the game around getting a quality shot was going to take some work. It legitimized the point that, even in Africa, hunting is hunting. In a process I would become familiar with over the next several days, we made it back out to a road where Nick radioed for Big John to come pick us up.

Back at the truck, Big John told Nick about seeing some vultures the day before in a nearby area. I could tell Nick was interested and that they both wanted to check it out. Few things about Africa are more iconic than Griffon Vultures so I encouraged the side trip in hopes of getting a few good photos of these increasingly uncommon birds. There was a single Cape Griffon Vulture positioned in the sun with a full crop. “Grab your rifle, let’s go for a walk”, Nick suggested. This time I noticed that he grabbed his own rifle too.

Cape Griffon Vulture with full crop

He showed me a few things about reading a jumble of tracks. He called it his “morning paper”. At some point, I got a whiff of something dead. The PH hadn’t smelled it but said the vulture’s crop was full for a reason. I didn’t carry the camera and regretted it after seeing a pair of Crimson-breasted Shrikes on the path in front of us. The walk ended at a waterhole with more camera regrets as I got my first Crowned and Blacksmith Plovers. Nick showed me a stump worn smooth by buffalo. Then left me to bird watch around the waterhole while he walked back to John and the truck. In my mind I had to question if this was the start of a prank. If it was, I was game to let it play out. I wandered around keeping the waterhole is sight so I wouldn’t get lost. At some point I flushed another couple of vultures. Like everything I’d encountered so far, Griffon Vultures have incredible vision and flushed at little provocation. Somehow birds on the ground over 100 yards aways had seen me through thick brush. Or, maybe they were just full and also ready to get themselves in the sun to aid digestion – either way, there was certainly something dead on the ground not far from where I was. I got another whiff of death. It wasn’t a prank – Nick and John showed up about when I expected them to. I pointed to where the vultures had flushed. On the way there, Nick showed me hyena tracks running in all directions.

Nick and I went one way and Big John the other. He didn’t mention it but I noticed when Nick cycled the bolt on his gun to put one in the chamber. It wasn’t long before the big tracker hollered that he had found an earlier client’s dead kudu. The dead kudu did little to lessen my worries about losing my own game. In Africa, if you wound it, you buy it. The last thing I wanted to do is buy a wildebeest or zebra and never get to touch him.

African PH’s have a reputation for legs that are impenetrable by thorns but it’s their olfactory toughness that impressed me the most. Neither Nick or John was phased by the stench of a dead kudu that had been opened up by hyenas, picked at by vultures, and left for several days to rot in the warm African air. They even cut the head off for the client – he had paid for it so he certainly should get the horns. I stayed upwind and watched the morbid surgery while choking back a gag or two.

Big John with the Kudu head

In the back of the truck again, this time with Nick and the rotting head of a big bull Kudu. Big John pointed out some distant impala and dropped us off for a long stalk. We never saw them after getting on the ground. We did see some vervet monkeys. Nick explained his dislike of monkeys and offered to let me shoot a couple – I declined telling him I’d seen videos of monkeys and baboons being shot where they act like Fred Sanford going to see Elizabeth. I just didn’t come to Africa to shoot a monkey. John picked us up. The next stalk was on a mixed herd of oryx and impala. We made a rather straight stalk trying to avoid a lot of Oryx eyes. I finally felt ready to start the shooting part of my safari but knew the open terrain and ample eyes were going to make it tough. It did. We never really stood a chance.

Again on the truck, the birds were everywhere. Nick being a birder too stopped the truck a couple of times for me to get some photos. I finally told Big John to roll up the window and start ignoring our requests to stop or we’d never make it back for lunch. Lunch was spaghetti with a sauce of meat, onion and something that looked like a carrot. It was stunningly good.

I photographed a few birds at the camp’s waterhole before we jumped on the truck for the afternoon stalks. I just noticed that the kudu head was gone and the back of the truck was washed clean. These guys are professionals at creating a pleasant experience and they are good at their jobs.

Riding out in the warm winter sun, it seems the animals not on my list like Waterbuck, Tsessebe, and Sable are lining the road like a parade route while the more common things like Impala and Warthog, the ones actually on my list, are sulking away before we see them. We did find some impala and wildebeest so we were dropped off behind a termite mound. It really was a tough stalk.

We crawled low through thick grass from thorn tree to thorn tree. We stopped as the nervous impala fed off leaving only the wildebeests. I got on the sticks once but before I could get comfortable for the shot, the herd bull wheeled off a bit. He definitely suspected something was there and I thought the stalk was over. Nick whispered that they should eventually settle down because they’re so used to seeing other animals moving around in the brush. We crawled some more and stopped for a second time to let the wildebeests feed. They started mooing. Surreal, again, laying in the Africa bush with rifle in hand listening to wildebeests.

Animal videographer, Simon King, says wildebeest moo when they’re happy. They moo when they’re sad…and when they’re nervous. Matter of fact, “Moo”, he says, “is really the only word they know.”

After a while, Nick set the sticks low and I knelt into them. It was a nearly head-on shot and I didn’t feel totally comfortable. The bull seemed a little reddish and I thought he might be a color phase. I asked because I really want just a normal blue and brindled gnu. Nick assured me he was fine. I got a broadside shot and took it on the point of the shoulder with a Nosler 180 grain Accubond from the over barrel. I saw him roll with all four feet sticking up out of a cloud of orange dust.

Nick hadn’t seen the animal fall and was worried that we might have a chase on our hands. We got there quick. A nice blue wildebeest bull was laying right where he should have been. Confirming Nick’s worries, though, he clearly was not going to die quick enough. I put another 180 grain Accubond in him and eliminated the PH’s concerns. While we waited for Big John and the truck, Nick slapped the side of my wildebeest launching clouds of red dust and revealing a beautiful blue and brindled coat. This was exactly the animal I came to Africa to get. Exactly. There are no words for this, you just have to experience it.

The bullet hole is just visible as a brown dot in the middle of the stripe running down its shoulder

Big John stopped the truck on the road about 200 yards away, from there it was a two-man effort to worm it through the bush to where the gnu lay. Pick in hand, Big John walked ahead of Nick in the truck to clear a path. They left me with my trophy so I was able to take a few pictures and make a video.

It really was an emotional experience. This was the animal I most wanted. This was the animal I most feared losing. They are big and have a reputation for toughness, “poor man’s buffalo” some folks call them. I, on the other hand, have a reputation for not always being a great shot.

I have watched dozens of wildebeest hunts on Youtube and they seldom go this well. Lost animals and animals that have to be finished by the PH are way, way more common than one-shot rollovers. I wasn’t going to let this go to my head. A half inch in any direction might have started a very different story. My version of the wildebeest story, however, was a perfect start to the hunting phase of my Africa journey.

Once they got there, Nick took a lot of photos with his own camera. Oohing and awing at each one. Making animals presentable for pictures is big part of a PH’s job and he clearly loved the results. He told me of a Zulu word, ingxoxo, pronounced something like “ingaba” that means discussion. He said at the end of the safari would could have an ingxoxo about what the photos taken with his camera are worth to me. Big John belly laughed so I didn’t think he was serious but I wasn’t totally sure either.

Big John thanked me for not causing a tracking problem. Throwing his big arms in a big circle he said something to the effect that I had just flopped the toughest animal on the whole place. It couldn’t have been just me, I’m sure an angel had something to do with how this played out. Either way, though, I got to see the winch in use as it dragged my trophy into the bed of the Toyota.

I saw my first giraffes in the warm light of my first evening in Africa. We made a very cold and fruitless attempt to find a warthog. A cold beer by a hot fire then a dinner of mushrooms on toast with chicken was finished with ice cream. As much as I expected from this experience, Africa was delivering even more.

 

[Phil Giordano]

Fantastic, thank you for sharing!
Keep hammering!

 

[Jörg Krüger]

Awesome. Thank you for willing to share your adventure.

 

[Andrew Short]

Great start! Keep it coming!

 

[mark-hunter]

Great story telling. Waiting for next installment.
(and fantastic photos thus far)

 

[BLJC30]

I love these reports! Can't wait for the update!

 

[VertigoBE]

An amazing story so far, and excellent shooting! Can’t wait for the next instalment and a well deserved waidmannsheil for that blue wildebeest! Cheers!

 

[buck wild]

Great start- liking it. Ah, Africa for the first time. Not many experiences in life can rival it.

 

[sierraone]

Congratulations on a great first hunt and report so far !!!

 

[shootist~]

Enjoying this very much!

 

[ET1775]

I can almost smell it! Thoroughly appreciating these posts. I will be there one day, in the meantime write-ups and photos like yours keep the dream alive.

 

[AZDAVE]

It is always nice to live someone`s adventure through their words and what their senses experienced. The first safari is almost magical. The next are even better.

 

[Frederik]

Well written keep the adventure going.

 

[slam8031]

love it from another in the palmetto state!

 

[Flipper Dude]

Great report so far! Looking forward to the rest. Beautiful rifle, but I must admit I cringed a little when I saw it in the high rack!

 

[Rubberhead]

Day 2 - June 28, 2022
As much as I want to experience every moment possible in Africa, the alarm clock here is just as rude as it is before a late season duck hunt in the US. A hot shower and a shave have me feeling more ready for my second day. I enjoy the irony of being a guy who hasn’t bothered to shave for work in years but would shave in the hopes of killing a gnarly warthog.

I’m already getting used to having a hot breakfast. This might be a problem when I’m back in the real world but for now it’s a great start to the day. Nick and I talk about yesterday’s brindled gnu and the possibilities for today. Our tracker made his way down from his cabin on the hill and we load our gear on the truck.

Big John noticed a newborn giraffe just as we got started with our “road work”. I was able to get a few good photos. I can’t wrap my head around the amount of wildlife that these acacia flats can support. It would be like having 50 whitetail deer visible from the road at any time. I just don’t understand.

We plodded along looking for the right animals to give us the right opportunity. It was really windy which made for tough conditions. I don’t know exactly why but Big John accompanied the guide and I on the first stalk of the day.

Big John, like everyone else I met in RSA, is multi-lingual. I don’t think they do it on purpose but he and Nick would slip between Zulu and English like it was one big language. They probably discussed the reason for him joining the stalk but I just didn’t pick-up on it. Besides, I’m either arrogant enough or self-confident enough that I never asked them to translate. If they wanted to talk about their goofy American client behind his back, I was fine with that since I was having the time of my life.

Africans stalk game in single-file lines with the PH in front. Their theory is it lowers the profile visible to whatever animals are being hunted. This doesn’t really make sense to me because three men standing abreast would look more like another large ungulate and less like a human than a single person line. Besides, there are animals everywhere not just directly in front of us. I get the feeling that this single-file thing is more of an unquestioned tradition than a valid hunting strategy but I was in Rome so I did what the Romans were doing…Big John followed the protocol, too, although the silhouette of our line was certainly a bit broader with him in mix.

We pushed forward with the morning’s stiff wind in our faces. Nick and John both hunkered and whispered ‘zebra’ at the same time. They pronounce it zeb-ra where most Americans say ze-bra. They pointed but all I saw was thick early winter grass and scrub acacia. I was starting to suspect a prank again when they both straightened and said we’d been busted. I still was dubious until I heard the unmistakable and impossible-to-imitate vocalizations of unhappy zebra. Somehow, with my color vision and supposedly larger brain, I couldn’t see a dozen rather audaciously patterned zebra before they and their black-and-white vision saw us. On the walk out I started wondering what it was going to take to get the less than 150-yard shot that I needed for me and the 5x scope I brought.

Our next attempt, a fast-paced and lengthy stalk through acacia scrub for impala, was fruitless but we came out to a road with a steenbok at about 250 yards away. We stopped in our tracks. As I slowly got the gun on the sticks, a common gray duiker came onto the road right near the steenbok. I had both of these species on my “by chance” list and this was certainly by chance. Nick whispered that he wanted to try something. My guide reached into his pocket and pulled out what sounded to me like a predator call. The duiker ram loved it and started coming towards us in several high-speed spurts and sudden stops. I’ve seen this done on Youtube for red duiker but it seemed to work equally well on the gray duiker too. My heart was in my throat but I’m not sure if it was because Nick was calling one of those fascinating pygmy antelopes into gun range or if I was worried that a local leopard might take a liking to the duiker call. Either way, just before getting into range the duiker spooked and dove into the brush very reminiscent of an Olympic swimmer jumping into a pool. It’s not a coincidence that “duiker” is the Afrikaans word for “diver”. The Steenbok, it turns out, was a ewe and the Duiker was now gone so our hunt was over. I didn’t get to see a leopard either.

We checked a couple of trail cameras and walked to a salt lick. No game but I saw my first Black-headed Oriole – an almost indescribably beautiful bird with a voice to match. Another stalk was busted by a big group of Giraffe. It’s humbling to be on the ground with these giants. This was not a zoo. There were no fences. The only thing between me and an animal that’s known to kill a lion with a single kick was red dirt and grass. They proved a point though; it is nearly impossible to hunt on foot with giraffes around. They can see you coming from a literal mile away and once they run everything else runs too. Anyone who can bow hunt a giraffe on foot has my upmost respect.

The long road back for lunch and Big John spotted some elephants on the side of a steep hill in the neighboring Madikwe Game Reserve. Even with my Zeiss binoculars, I could barely tell they were elephants yet Big John had seen them while driving a truck on a bouncy, rugged road. For me, this just substantiated the legendary reputation of African trackers and their superhuman vision.

Over lunch I noticed that white South Africans seem to use the word “fantastic” a lot. I’m starting to understand that it’s not just a meaningless sentence intensifier. It’s because so many things here are actually fantastic including the lunch – fried potatoes and yesterday’s wildebeest. I can’t say enough about how good it was. After lunch, while my PH took a nap, I chased an African Gray Hornbill that I heard singing but I never got to see or photograph it. It struck me that I’m in the toddler phase in my Africa trip. I’m getting more and more bold on my own and starting to wander off further and further from those charged with my safety. I made a mental note to be more cautious because the toddler always ends up getting himself into trouble and running back, crying, to its parents. I made my way back towards camp.

On the hillside behind our camp, I noticed what I thought was a large bird up a tree. When I looked with binoculars it was actually a pair of vervet monkeys. I whispered “monkeys” to the sleeping Nick who was up immediately. He ran to his tent and brought out a silenced .308 with a bipod mumbling something about Chris Kyle. He, again, offered to let me shoot a monkey. “No thank you”, so he set up hoping to drop the two out of the tree with one shot. Before the two of them lined up, another vervet came to the waterhole behind us. Nick turned, popped him in the head then turned back, and killed one out of the tree. All the sudden, I get the Chris Kyle comment. Using my Canon DSLR like a camcorder, I got both of these on video. Both were head shot and dead immediately. Nick showed me why the slang name for vervets is the “blue-balled monkey”…the mature males really have bright sky blue…well, you know.

The monkeys were thrown in the back of the truck for a trip to the Vulture Restaurant. I’ve mentioned it before, but Africa’s vultures are all threatened species so the lethal management of camp vermin will benefit several threatened bird species. It’s a pretty good trade off in my opinion. Enough birding and pest control, we were back on the truck for big game.

We only made it a little way from camp before either Nick or Big John noticed some impala behind the usual roadside tsessebe. We tried a stalk but it failed before it even got started with Impala running in several directions and the tsessebe stomping and blowing. This upped my opinion of the brown antelope with a reputation for speed. Up until now they seemed to be oblivious to humans in a truck but their attitude changed a little when we were on foot. They still didn’t run but at least they seemed uncomfortable. I doubt they would let us approach much closer on foot.

We walked through to the opposite side of the block where we bumped a handful of warthogs that ran across the road just as John was coming around to get us. I didn’t lift the rifle. No harm, though, because there were no shooter pigs in the bunch.

In Africa, just like the US, I really have no sense of direction so I’m not sure where we were but we got on a group of wildebeest that had some satellite zebra. The zebra spooked early but the wildebeests, cows and calves with one young bull, evidently knowing that I had my tag filled, just laid in the road that we had just crossed. Big John almost had to push a couple of tsessebe off the road with the bumper of the truck in order to come and get us. I’m back to being suspect of tsessebe. Man’s greed almost wiped them out. Now, man’s benevolence has them back in good numbers but their species didn’t seem to have learned anything from the matter.

Recovering from the blown stalk we took another road where Nick spotted a one-horned gemsbok, aka oryx. Like all good PH’s, Nick had already figured me out and appealed to my basic primal nature. He told me that one-horned animals are half price – basically $700 for this stunningly beautiful unicorn. All I could say was, “Let’s go.”

Halfway through a good stalk, my young PH whispered that it was an old cow. Oryx cows and bulls have very similar horns so gemsbok headgear is not a good way to differentiate the sexes. About that time something like a large piece of fruit fell off of a dead leadwood tree we were using as cover. Of course, there is no explanation for why a tree that was poisoned 20 years ago would still have fruit on it. Before my mind could grasp what had happened, a pearl-spotted owl with a lizard in its tiny beak flew up from where the “fruit” had fallen. Being birders, Nick and I counted ourselves lucky to get to see this diminutive owl hunting in the daylight. This reenforces the point, too, that hunters are more privy to nature’s secrets than those who don’t hunt.

Continuing the stalk, I started having second doubts. It took another 100 yards for me to work up the nerve to tell my PH. I don’t know if it was because she was a cow, or if I just didn’t want to spend the money on something that I really wasn’t that interested in to start with, or if it was some other divine providence but I had simply had a change of heart. I hated that Nick had wasted a great stalk only to have me change my mind like some insecure kid. I looked around hoping to find something to try to salvage the effort. I found some zebra.

“Well spotted,” is not an expression anyone in the US would ever use but that was Nick’s whispered response to my seeing the zebra. We started a fresh stalk. As we turned, I looked over my right shoulder at the old lone Oryx cow. She had lived her entire life in a world I had only dreamed of but I had to wonder if she, herself, wasn’t hoping for the mercy of a good stalk. Oryx are just not supposed to be alone.

Back on the zebra, I did my usual things to try to make it not work. I stepped on a dry branch then stubbed my foot on a root ball but the enemy wind had become our friend. We got in double rifle range and the PH put up his shooting sticks.

I don’t know if it was 10 minutes or 45 but I hunched over the sticks moving the crosshairs from one zebra to another as Nick’s mind and eyes worked through the herd. We lined up on what he thought was a good stallion but perfectly spaced morula trees and Nick’s uncertainty keep me from taking a shot. I will probably only kill one zebra during my entire life so I want it to be a nice, adult male.

Unlike wildebeest and the roadside horses I’m used to seeing, zebra stallions don’t usually have a visible “belly button” so it’s tough to know for sure. Males are bigger than the females but not by much. Their heads and faces are more blocky and their backs are scarred from fighting but separating stallions from mares is based on gradations and is not, forgive the pun, black and white. At this point, I really had to rely on Nick’s experience to work through these subtilties and get me on the right animal.

Because the sexes are so hard to tell apart, it’s considered okay to take a mare. Matter of fact, a lot of zebra hunters do it on purpose because the hide of females is not scarred up from fighting and makes a better rug.

My PH pointed out a big mare with good, clean skin. I lined up the scope but that same change of heart thing hit me so I lifted the crosshairs harmlessly over her back. “It’s your hunt,” Nick genuinely assured me. We watched another possible stallion but a pair of half-size foals seemed to be sticking close behind him. He looked like a male but his followers caused some doubt. It’s only the evening of Day Two but it seemed I was at a possible pivot point for my safari. Would I look back and regret not taking that beautiful mare or would I reach of point of regret for actually taking her?

A scuffle broke out in the bush that pulled me out of the self-reflecting trance I had put myself in. I could only see bits and pieces of the activity until it brought another handful of zebra into gun range. The fight ended with a nice, big stallion standing broadside at 90 meters. I poked a hole through the top of its shoulder badge. I seldom hear a bullet slap an animal but I knew we had a solid hit. Heart shots aren’t instantaneous so I asked Nick, “Should I hit him again?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

It was over in less than 10 seconds and less than 20 yards from where it started. What I didn't know was that Nick could see a solid garnet stream coming from the hole I had made and knew we weren’t going to lose this zebra.

Nick radioed Big John as we walked to where the zebra was lying on his side, unmoving. He pulled back its gums to show me that male zebras have a fang in the gap between the incisors and molars. This is the cause of the scaring on the backs of the stallions.

Nick left me to meet Big John on the road so I got to spend some quality time photographing my zebra under the warm light of an African sunset. As with the wildebeest, it took a while for them to work the truck through the scrub while dodging stumps and aardvark holes. I enjoyed every second of the time with my zebra.

After getting the truck to where I was, Nick got our help to roll the zebra on its other side. He was looking for an exit wound but found the 180 grain Accubond just under the skin on the opposite shoulder. He’s a big ballistics junkie and very interested in bullet performance. From there we did the usual set-up and took the customary trophy photos, me with my camera and he with his. Even so often, he’d look at the screen on his camera, smile and, again, mention the ingxoxo or discussion we were to have on the value of the photos he was taking. Big John would just laugh. If he wasn’t joking I had little to bargain with – I needed to change that…

Sunset didn’t mark the end of Africa’s surprises. On the way to the skinning shed with the zebra properly loaded, a pair of honey badgers ran across the winding, grassy road just in front of our vehicle. Even Africans don’t get to see them very often so Nick and John went into a chorus of whoops and hollers. At the skinning shed, they hoisted my zebra where Nick jumped in and started the necessary knife work. He was amazingly efficient. He had to be. The zebra’s long yellow gut was blowing up like a party balloon on a helium nozzle. After dropping the insides into a huge basin, he dug around for the heart. It looked like head of a cartoon bunny. My bullet had literally fileted the top part of the heart into two perfectly equal halves that flopped over like a rabbit’s ears. Nick held it up for me to see. All I could say was, “I almost missed it”. They laughed and it became something of a joke but I wasn’t joking. I’d made two excellent shots so far but I still couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that I was shooting above my paygrade. Nick turned his attention to the skin on the zebra’s left flank.

He dug around and pulled out my bullet. I’ve been something of a Nosler fan boy after finding out how much my rifle likes their bullets. I’m even more so now since the performance of their accubond on a big, tough-skinned animal looked almost perfect to me.

It was totally dark by the time we got started back to camp. Nick and I were on the back with my rifle loaded in case we saw a bush pig. Night hunting in Africa is completely acceptable and bush pigs are very, very nocturnal. I was actually feeling pretty lucky. About halfway to camp, my PH jumped out of the truck with his flashlight, he calls a torch, and said, “busy baby”. My jacked-up ears heard “bush pig” so I went for my rifle. “No, get the camera.” I was confused but followed orders.

I got a few marginal photos of an African bush baby through the thick branches and awkward torch light. It wasn’t over, though. A group of Cape buffalo crossed the road on our way back into camp. It was dark enough by then that my camera shutter wouldn’t cooperate and I didn’t get any photos.

After checking in with family and freshening up I met Nick by the fire. Chef Trust had prepared some Wildebeest Mountain Oysters as an appetizer. Under any normal circumstances I would have never even entertained the idea of trying them. Honestly compels me to admit that they weren’t bad. They kind of reminded me of very tender pork. Before I had time to retreat back into my warm, comfortable box, the Chef served Wildebeest liver, kidney and heart giblets on toast. I ate that too. Fittingly, diner was fresh Wildebeest loin with potatoes. It was the most awesome day I ever lived.

Tsessebe antelope under a white-thorn acacia

I have not words for this

One of Nick's Pictures

The bullet pulled from the zebra

Bush Baby

Grilled Wildebeest Loin

 

[Pheroze]

I love your narrative. And, I am inspired to pay more attention to the birds next time I am there. Thanks for that.

 

[Hogpatrol]

Excellent writeup. Congrats on the beautiful zebra and wildebeest.

 

[Rubberhead]

I love your narrative. And, I am inspired to pay more attention to the birds next time I am there. Thanks for that.

The big birds like Hornbills and Go-away birds are super interesting. The little birds, that probably go unnoticed, are beautiful. Here's a pair of Green-winged Pytilia, a Blue Waxbill and male Violet-earred Waxbill and a Golden-breasted Bunting at the camp's waterhole...

I only brought a 250mm lens. I'd like to spend a week there with a 500mm...