With some of our zebra baits hung, and one left in the truck, we check a couple of baits, then we head to a likely large pan where we have seen a good track. It is mid morning.
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We walk about 150 yds to the edge of the water and find a good tree, so now we signal the trackers to bring the bait.
As Pete and I are waiting on the tracker to bring in the zebra quarter, we both hear it. The low bellow of buffalo. He looks at me, I look at him, and he says as I am already moving “get your gun.”
With the .416 in hand we start navigating through the thick jess. Openings pop open, we stop, and listen, we keep moving to the sound. We have not traveled 100 yards when Manu stops us. We have walked up to the tail end of a large buffalo herd. How large, we did not know at the time. Sticks up, when suddenly a cow steps out at 25 yards and dead eyes us. We do not move. The wind is good but starting to swirl. The cow senses something not right and trots off starting the whole herd moving.
We use the opportunity to relax for 15 minutes while Pete disposes of dinner, and I smoke a fine cigar. This is the opening we were standing in when the cow spied us. The boys chat about the wind, where the buff were headed in Shona. I of course and fluent in none of it. I spent 4 trips to Tanzania learning basic Swahili. That does me zero good here in Zim, but thankfully all the guys speak english, so they let me know what is being discussed.
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We regroup and head out hot on the trail, not hard to follow because now the group is very vocal. Our scout says he knows another close by pan they are heading to so we head that way. Little did we know the big herd split in two, and we now find ourselves smack between both groups. We can see the tell tale black bodies and legs moving through the bush at about 40-50 yds, so we set up the sticks by a bush, and start to watch the buff pass by.
A good bull enters the field of view feeding, but he is facing us, and there is some thick cover between us and him. Patience Uncle Morty, Patience. He feeds closer, but deeper into the bush, still facing us. Just then, a cow eases into the opening between us and the bull feeding. My butt puckers, my palms sweat. Will she bust us before the shot. She keeps feeding, but while she does, the bull turns away from to feed only giving me the Texas heart shot. Crap. Crap. Crap. The slight breeze is suddenly on my neck. The cow snorts once, then turns and runs away. The herd starts to move off but I stay glued on the sticks.
And then, Pete with binos up says bull coming. Old bull. All I needed to hear. As if I won the lottery, a single old dugga boy, pulling up the rear vanguard, walks right into the opening where the first bull should have gone. He never stops walking, but I am confident I can make the shot in the brief window of opportunity. I place the Trijicon post reticle just ahead of his shoulder and wait the fraction of a second it takes for the last step to complete the picture. Blam! The gun touches off and the bull just starts to run. Pete looks at me with that WTF just happened look. I muster my best air of confidence and say”it was a good hit”. Later Pete would tell me his concern was that the buff never reacted. He was afraid of a real cluster. Just then as I am starting my second wave of stating it all felt good, we hear the death below! Kufa. Old bull down. We make our way about 30-40 yds to the bull, put a finisher into him for good measure, and start the hugs. By Pete’s estimation, he is an old bull, 12 years or older. His horns are worn, broomed and split. His boss is rubbed smooth in places. His back is caked in mud, and the scars are too numerous to count. He is just the kind of buff I love.
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It was a perfect heart shot. I give Pete some shit for doubting, but I remember this is the first time he has hunted with me, so temper the abuse somewhat. As if to silently say we’re all good, Pete photo bombs my camera which we be a trademark of any time I give him my phone for pictures. Remember the zebra bait? Photo bomb. Buff. Photo bomb.
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So we get the buff loaded, but head back to hang the bait as we originally started that morning. It could not be more than 500 yards from the bait tree to where the buff took his dirt nap. My kind of buff hunt. The team hangs the bait while I enjoy a lovely Cuban Partagas cigar, complete with camp chair, in the shade. A moment to reflect and be treasured.
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We head to the skinning shed with buff, and see that Big Mike has taken a nice dark giraffe for bait. We get the news that the lions we saw yesterday were on the bait that had been placed. Two males, and the single female. They are going to sit tonight.
We eat a late lunch and then go back to checking baits. Nothing yet, but still early in the game.
The evening will turn into a night of great highs, and lows. But that is for tomorrow.
Nothing like a good dog.
