Abraham’s Grin
By Brian Gallup
I’d hunted in South Africa before but this was my first Cape Buffalo hunt and I was pretty excited. It was early spring and the morning was perfect; Laughing Doves were calling all around us and the bush was thick and green in the morning light. The sun had filled the meadows with warmth but had not yet reached the deep shadows under the Acacia trees.
We were walking on fresh tracks in the high bushveld of Limpopo Province. The local name for the area is Thaba Metsi, which is a Northern Sotho name
meaning “Mountain of Water.”
Our own shadows lay out in front of us as we moved quietly through the still air. After a short walk, the tracker had us stop and watch from the shadows when the doves went silent. I didn’t get it then, but things were about to happen.
A mixed herd of about thirty buffalo quietly stepped into the sunlight in front of us; they were close and moving closer. My son Russ was videoing it and he could have used a wide angle lens.
Our tracker, Abraham, was from one of the Zulu tribes. He was focused and joyful in his work. We had hunted together a lot over seven years and I considered him to be one of those exceptional trackers with that heightened sixth sense you hear about. Watching him work was half the fun and I would keep one eye on him like I would a bird dog. I had learned to thumb the safety on my
rifle when his demeanour intensified. When he would point with his eyes and flash his great big white toothy grin, it was time to be ready. On this particular morning in the buffalo herd, he was really grinning.
Abraham had mischievously led us to the one spot in the bush where this restless herd would soon pass on their way to water. They came twitching their ears and snapping their tails as they peered into our shaded hiding place.
At the front of the herd there was a young dark bull with real good horns that came within 15 paces before he noticed something was wrong. He couldn’t see us clearly in the shade with the bright sun in his face, so he would drop his head, take a short step then raise his head up high again and stare some more. He wasn’t happy.
I had my safety off when my PH, Marius Junior whispered “Not that one. Your bull is at the back, behind those cows.”
Glancing to my right, I saw that Marius Senior had this young bull covered with a lot more gun than I was carrying. I made a mental note about hunting Cape Buffalo with a little .375 H&H, before I exhaled and looked around for the old bull that we were after. I found him where Junior said, at the back of the herd shuffling towards us, gently pushing his cows along.
Most of the herd walked straight towards us to within about 25 yards. Then, catching our scent, they would stop abruptly and give us a dirty look before turning to move past us on both sides. I don’t know how close they were when they walked past; I didn’t look.
Our old grey bull with his huge boss pushed forward through the herd until he was frowning at me from 22 paces away. He just stood there, like he was in no hurry, facing me with a yearling and a fat cow between us. I kept the crosshairs on him and waited. My FN Model 70 had an old Weaver wide-field on it and the three animals more than filled the scope.
The Kruger men, both professional hunters, were guiding this hunt as an extra margin of safety. Marius Junior stood beside me holding a slide action 12
gauge with a long magazine full of slugs. He would whisper calm, deliberate instructions into my ear and it helped me keep my head. Marius Senior, standing several steps to my right, watched the herd over the express sights of his 416 Rigby. I was in the sticks with my 375 Holland and Holland. We were hunting buffalo!
My recollection of what happened next is a bit hazy. It was just as hazy a few minutes after I squeezed the trigger as it is today. I figure that means that I can tell it any way I want.
Unis, a big good natured kid was with us as a novice tracker. Abraham had hunted all of the Big Five before, but this was the first time on dangerous game for Unis. He crouched anxiously to my right, behind a slender acacia tree with both his large hands around the trunk. I thought he looked a little pale. I also noticed peripherally that the leaves in that particular tree were shaking.
Meanwhile, I was operating on courage borrowed from Marius Junior as the herd milled around us and I was surprised to hear words rasping from my dry throat that sounded like “Ooh crap!” It occurred to me that I might be losing it. Junior chuckled and steadied me with some half-truths.
While I waited for the cow and yearling to move away from the old bull, I took a quick glance over my left shoulder at Russ; armed with his camera, he was steady
as a rock. To my right, Senior held true like Horiatis at the Gate. Abraham was still grinning.
My breathing was intermittent at best. It was obvious that I was the only one among us who understood how dangerous this was! Then, I noticed something reassuring. Glancing down to my right I caught Unis on his knees whispering over and over; “Oh crap! Oh crap! Oh crap!” while jerking his eyes around checking for climbable trees. A kindred spirit!
I got back into my scope just in time to see my bull step into the clear and to hear Junior whisper; "Take him!"
It went well. My first shot was a 300 grain cup point solid that went under his chin and straight through to his heart. The great bull reeled to his left, and raced through the trees. I missed completely with my second shot but he didn’t need it and was on the ground in less than 30 yards. Most of the herd must have scattered but I didn’t actually notice.
Junior had said, “Reload!” and I rushed it, dropping one round into the
grass. When I finally got the bolt closed over a full magazine, my old bull let out that haunting death bellow and there, standing over him, was that handsome young bull with the good horns. We watched him without moving forward as he seemed to be mulling over his options, so Junior got us to back off a ways. He looked mean as hell and I braced myself for a charge, but happily, he finally just trotted off after the cows as their new master. So it goes in the veld.
The skinners were called on the radio and soon arrived full of enthusiasm. It was an important time for all of us; the huge bull was a great trophy and would also feed a lot of folks.
There were no pretentious handshakes or high fives and I liked it that way. It was a good hunt and it went without saying.
Sometimes I think that I can still smell that mid-day walk back to the truck and the ride to camp. But no matter how hard I try I can only recollect a few isolated images along the way: I remember gulping down a bottle of water and handing my empty rifle up to Marius Senior on the back of the Toyota; I remember the edges of conversations that seemed to shift back and forth between English and Afrikaans.
I learned that “Oh crap” was a sort of universal Cape Buffalo hunting term spoken by all the bushveld tribes, black and white. Mostly , I remember Abraham’s grin.

sounds like my (better) buffalo hunts.

Succinct, colorful, nicely written. Thanks for the post.

Thanks, Brice. The African Hunting Gazette published this story last spring. Brian