Kevin Peacocke
AH ambassador
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2018
- Messages
- 6,157
- Reaction score
- 22,430
- Location
- Harare Zimbabwe
- Media
- 110
- Articles
- 2
- Member of
- Cleveland Gun Club
- Hunted
- Zimbabwe, SouthAfrica
Later that afternoon we drove down a parallel track to see if the herd had crossed, but there they were just off in the bush on the side where we saw them that morning. David drove on about 250 metres and we got out the guns and packed some water. On our way in there was a small kopje on our left and to keep the wind in our favour David lead us up into it so that he would have a better vantage point from which to glass the herd.
The bull we had seen was debated over a cup of tea before we left camp. The consensus was split with half saying he was just within the limit, and the others, me included putting him over. Be that as it may, my mind was made up, I was taking this buffalo regardless and I would absolve David of any consequences. A hunt is a hunt, and hunt we must.
So now as we scrambled up the kopje the task shifted from one of finding a candidate to finding the chosen one. This bull as you will have seen had a distinct white patch under his left eye and another on his left rump. He was unmistakable, but in the large group now spread out feeding, would we be able to find him again?
Once up on the rock David began glassing a group out to our right, perhaps a hundred metres off. Then he swung left and stopped stiff. "This is your buff right here, right here!" he whispered urgently. "Rest on my shoulder", there was no possibility of sticks, and in any case I could hardly miss this shot!
As so often happens, the shot just happens. You intend to take it all in, the red dot on the black hide, the muscle form and the angle of the horns, the ears. But the boom comes in the middle there somewhere and before you are fully conscious again your buff is off. This boy had been facing to my left at the shot but now he wheeled to the right, began to stagger a bit and David bellowed "hit him again". I did, the remaining barrel connecting on the right shoulder, exactly opposite the first shot. "Reload, reload", and as that was being done the buff slowly collapsed, bellowed and it was done. I put in two more shots into the boiler room, one of which hit a branch on the way in a shower of white chips.
Back slaps and congratulations all round and as we stood looking at this great mound of buffalo the attention turned to the inevitable reckoning, yes or no? Out came the tape, and it certainly looked even wider than in the photo. 35.5" on the dot! More back slapping and I gave David a wry look like I knew it would be ok all along. He just said 34. Metres that is, the distance of the shot. And 37 metres from there to where he fell.
We loaded him up and back at the skinning shed both lungs were found to have been shredded and the heart hit but not centrally. From the downward angle I doubt both lungs could have been hit with the first shot, but the Hornady DGX did the job anyway. That night it rained heavily, the rest of the buff and all of the other animals of the Save had made it through another dry season. Minus one or two of course.
The bull we had seen was debated over a cup of tea before we left camp. The consensus was split with half saying he was just within the limit, and the others, me included putting him over. Be that as it may, my mind was made up, I was taking this buffalo regardless and I would absolve David of any consequences. A hunt is a hunt, and hunt we must.
So now as we scrambled up the kopje the task shifted from one of finding a candidate to finding the chosen one. This bull as you will have seen had a distinct white patch under his left eye and another on his left rump. He was unmistakable, but in the large group now spread out feeding, would we be able to find him again?
Once up on the rock David began glassing a group out to our right, perhaps a hundred metres off. Then he swung left and stopped stiff. "This is your buff right here, right here!" he whispered urgently. "Rest on my shoulder", there was no possibility of sticks, and in any case I could hardly miss this shot!
As so often happens, the shot just happens. You intend to take it all in, the red dot on the black hide, the muscle form and the angle of the horns, the ears. But the boom comes in the middle there somewhere and before you are fully conscious again your buff is off. This boy had been facing to my left at the shot but now he wheeled to the right, began to stagger a bit and David bellowed "hit him again". I did, the remaining barrel connecting on the right shoulder, exactly opposite the first shot. "Reload, reload", and as that was being done the buff slowly collapsed, bellowed and it was done. I put in two more shots into the boiler room, one of which hit a branch on the way in a shower of white chips.
Back slaps and congratulations all round and as we stood looking at this great mound of buffalo the attention turned to the inevitable reckoning, yes or no? Out came the tape, and it certainly looked even wider than in the photo. 35.5" on the dot! More back slapping and I gave David a wry look like I knew it would be ok all along. He just said 34. Metres that is, the distance of the shot. And 37 metres from there to where he fell.
We loaded him up and back at the skinning shed both lungs were found to have been shredded and the heart hit but not centrally. From the downward angle I doubt both lungs could have been hit with the first shot, but the Hornady DGX did the job anyway. That night it rained heavily, the rest of the buff and all of the other animals of the Save had made it through another dry season. Minus one or two of course.
