THE BLACK DEATH

Soup plates in the sand

I wanted movement and not a calm course of existence. I wanted excitement and danger and a chance to sacrifice myself… Leo Tolstoy

What better feeling to hold a double rifle in one’s hand, loaded with five hundred grains of pure stopping power in each barrel, what better feeling to prepare oneself to go into battle with one of Africa’s most dangerous animals… They are any hunter’s true adversary, a beast with sheer willpower like no other and with endurance second to none. These widow makers look at you as if you owe them money, they have unbelievable strength, no mercy and they take serious convincing to stay down.

My heart feels at home every time I enter the district of Steenbokpan in Limpopo. It is a very flat area, absent of hills and valleys where I so much enjoy hunting, but still truly beautiful. It is an area with an annual rainfall of less than 450mm but holds a lot of sweet grass high in nutrients and feeding value for the game. The sunsets on this concession that closely boarders the beautiful country of Botswana are breathtakingly beautiful and its game well managed and in abundance. We arrived at our hunting destination as the darkness of night was overpowering the final efforts of day. Just before we reached our lodge a vision of a black ton of muscle appeared in our headlights crossing the bush road, its head held high, nostrils flaring, filled with a force of warning in its eyes, a great old phantom with one horn worked down completely, a bull that any ethical hunter will dream of, a bull that fuelled my heart with passion and excitement, a bull that looked at us in a way that said “stay away or I will end you”.

My chosen professional hunter (PH) for this dangerous game hunt was Pieter, a true child of Africa. The excitement and adventure I have experienced with this outfit is enough to fill nine lives and then some. Pieter has proven himself on many occasions and aided in protecting my life as if his own.

We hunted long and hard for this mighty bull with no luck, outsmarted time and again. After our 5am hand-baked rusks and coffee ritual we loaded the hunting vehicle with our lunch and water for the day. Morale in the camp was at an all-time low, fatigue and lactic acid was overpowering our muscle groups in our fit and well-trained legs. It was day fourteen of our Safari with many great trophies ticked off the list but still no buffalo and to make matters worse it was our final day booked. We covered ten to fifteen miles on foot daily for the last two weeks in search of this old buffalo worrier without any luck. Every set of tracks ended in a non-shooter bull, mature but not the ancient dagga boy full of character and battle scars that dreams are made of. Not that one horned patriarch that presented itself on our arrival.

Our mood lifted with the rise of the sun as our Zimbabwean tracker found a set of fresh soup plate sized tracks in the red sand, crossing the road just after we left camp. We parked the hunting vehicle under the shade of a big marula tree and loaded our double rifles for battle. This buffalo hunt was my second big five hunt, and after staring death closely in the eye on my first big five hunt, I decided to purchase a second double rifle as a gift to my PH for when adventure takes us down these dangerous roads. Research educated me to shoot a bonded soft bullet from our right and first barrel to deliver the maximum foot-pound energy possible, into our adversary and to load a solid bullet into our left and second barrel for ultimate penetration. In most cases a bull will run away after the first shot is administered and a second shot would have to penetrate the bull from the back and still reach the engine room. A second shot is also often fired through bush vegetation and for these shots a solid will always prove superior.

We soon noticed a second and third set of tracks roaming through the sun filled patches of the bushveld country. Could this be three dagga boys trying to warm up from the cold winter night passed? The tracks indicated no different. We bumped into a big kori bustard bird that broke into flight as our neck hair was suddenly standing at attention, saluting each other. Tension levels are definitely a lot higher when hunting dangerous game. We found our first pile of fresh dung after two hours of tracking spoor, still wet but ice cold. Our tracker informed us that we should find them somewhere around midday. We also stumbled onto the grey ghost of Africa, a big kudu bull with spiral horns towering towards the sky with illuminated bright ivory tips. A trophy sure to run into the SCI record book of but when on buffalo business…

As the midday sun was beating down on our exposed necks, Thaban our tracker started walking slower, bending down around every corner, looking for Africa’s black death. The spoor was slowly heading towards a very dense and thickly overgrown area of the concession. The perfect place for three grumpy old gladiators to take an afternoon siesta. It was not long and the smell of herbivore filled the steady wind blowing straight into our faces. My eyes locked with those of my PH for a split second as both our faces lit up with big smiles, filled with excitement and life. We were hunting dangerous game, we were following in the footsteps of great hunters and mentors such as Sanchez-Arinno, Percival and Selby. We were hunting buffalo, not in hunting books but in real life.

Thaban suddenly dropped to the ground as if struck by lightning, waving us down and pointing into the thickest of cover I have ever experienced to date. I used my Leica binoculars and could see nothing more than the slightest whisp of a tail to repel the small devilish flies buzzing about. We needed to crawl closer, we needed to find a shooting lane fast. With our tracker in the lead we slowly crawled forward, uncertain of the whereabouts of the other two buffalo, oblivious to the events that were about to happen. As our tracker crossed the fifteen-meter mark a loud high-pitched squeal noise filled the air as a large puffadder came flying over my head. Not an everyday occurrence for me… A sudden thunderous explosion surrounded me as big black buffalo bulls where crashing through dry brush and trees from every direction. Pieter jumped up and shouldered his rifle trying to defend himself and those around him as the closest bull ran past me at a distance less than fifteen yards. We were literally in the middle of the bachelor herd when Thaban our tracker unknowingly placed his left hand on a snake while he was crawling closer and uncontrollably flung the snake in my direction… We were so close, fourteen days of hard walking and ethical hunting, and no buffalo.

We decided to take an hour of rest to allow the bulls to settle down and to gather our emotions and slow our heart rates. The sandwiches so lovingly packed and prepared by the wonderful chef truly hit the spot but we were running low on water and our hunting vehicle was miles away, the perfect situation to lower morale once more. It was not until after four that afternoon, steadily following the spoor of the three bulls, that we found wet but also warm dung. We were close once more… Without the assistance of these amazing African trackers many of my hunting successes would not have been possible. The essence of Africa flows in their blood. The way they follow a spoor through the thickest of brush, hardest of rocky terrain or tall tick invested grass is an art-form worth experiencing. Armed with nothing more than courage and trust in his hunter’s ability to handle and shoot a rifle.

Thaban spotted the horns of one of the three bulls as the sun’s last rays were reflecting from its prominent bosses. Time was running out and we needed to act fast. Our targets were steadily grazing in an easterly direction, putting the sun at our backs, the perfect scenario to obtain success in the field. Dianna goddess of the hunt smiled upon us for the first time in days as the bush opened up ahead of us, with a strong and steady wind blowing in our direction. Perfect… With our minds focused on one thing and one thing only we silently rushed forward to gain ground on the bulls ahead. Thaban staying behind to decrease our chance of detection and to direct us in case we lose sight of our bulls. As Pieter and I reached the final brush cover the three bulls were standing broadside not more than thirty yards ahead, in the open, as the sun disappeared behind the mighty African horizon.

Hunting natures debt collectors is certainly life changing, a journey worth experiencing. An ethical hunting and conservation mindset, is not a mindset where horn size is always the main objective. The real hunter will appreciate the ancient bull and see him as the better trophy. Harvesting the bull living his final winter, with worn down teeth and character, is truly rewarding.

I can still remember every detail of that wonderful hunt like it happened yesterday. The bull grazing on the right-hand side was exactly everything I had visualised over the past two weeks, the phantom that presented itself upon our arrival. A grey old face with severe hair loss over its body due to age, thick hard bosses and a worn-down horn on its right side. The open sight bead of my double rifle found the black and grey shoulder of my buffalo as my heart was racing out of control. I took a deep calming breath to focus my mind and tried to slow my heart rate down… Slowly but surely I started squeezing my front trigger, hardly feeling my rifle slamming into my shoulder in full recoil force, due to the adrenalin rushing through my veins. The once peaceful day suddenly filled with the deafening thunderous sounds of our doubles roaring towards Africa’s cape buffalo. My first bullet found its mark perfectly, penetrating the beasts heart lung area and my PH’s bullet dropped the bull in its tracks by breaking the shoulder. The smell of gunpowder filled the air as we both reloaded our rifles and watched the other two bulls disappearing into the winter bush. I placed an insurance shot into the bull’s spine after the sweet sound of its death bellow filled the surrounding tense air.

Experiencing the last breath of any animal as beautiful and as old as my trophy buffalo is very emotional to say the least. We placed our hands on the bull as his fading eyes entered the green fields of the afterlife, waidmannsheil. A humbling experience that filled my life with more tales to tell my children when Africa fills their dreams

When one spends time in nature every sunrise represents a promise of adventure. It’s a time of excitement, filled with dreams of what may be. Make time to cherish these beautiful moments. Waidmannsheil!

YOUR MAJESTY – THE LION