I have a bunch of air rifle shooters here, who have never shot anything bigger than a crow!

And they keep asking about African hunting stories.

I have been telling them a few, and I hope some of you would post theirs here.

In Chete, which is on the shores pf Lake Kariba, which has many rivers feed into it.

One of the bigger ones is the Luzi River.

It was in the dry season, and the river was mostly dry further out from the lake.

Lots of crocs can been seen sunning themselves on the banks of the river, and trying to get a shot at a big one is very difficult.

It was mid morning, and we got to a hill over looking the river.

We could see a large croc in the water down the river further from the lake.

We know the water there is not very deep.

There was also a dead tree close to the bank where he is.

We decided to take a chance, and try to crawl on our stomachs to get close to that tree and see if we can get a shot at him.

It took us a while, but we made it.

Roy got his head up to have a look, then looked back and whispered "his head is partly out of the water. Get behind the tree and see if you can shoot him"

I did that, took careful aim and fired.

There was a big splash, and all sorts of splashes several yards from him too.

Roy stood up, saying "well done"

I said said "he went under"

"He is dead. Part of his skull flew yards away"

Roy goes in the water, with the shooting stick.

Feeling with it for the croc.

Soon he found him, and we dragged him out.

Walter arrived with the truck, and joined in the fun.

Saeed,

Thanks for stirring things up. Looking forward to reading other hunting stories. I like tracking and hunting cats. Hard to pick one, but here goes:

We hung multiple baits for leopard and had multiple hits. Decided to sit one one evening. No response. Decided to sit the same bait the next morning. Showed up well before daylight.

There were a lot of palms in the area and the first thing we heard, while it was still dark, was a lot of crashing of the palms. Still pitch black. Then started the purring. If you haven't heard a leopard purr, it's loud. We've got a pair. Still an hour or more from daylight.

As it starts to gray, our feline pair show up under the bait tree, but it's far too early to shoot. We are privileged to watch the male and female for some time. The male mates with the female to the right of the tree and then walks to the left of the tree. Then, he rolls on his back, all four legs in the air.

It's now light enough to shoot, but at that moment, another male on a hill behind the bait tree starts to saw. The male is captivated.
He has meat in the tree, a girlfriend, and a rival, so he's not sure what to do. He sits like a dog looking at the opposing hillside, but right behind a nice little bush. No shot.

He eventually walked back to his girlfriend and made it about half-way. He took off into a palm thicket that was incredibly thick, but then doubled back and died in some long grass to the left of the tree.

The trackers and game scout came at the sound of the shot and we played a very cruel trick. We showed them the blood trail that ran to the right into the palm thicket and they all were less than pleased. The head tracker, who was Muslim said something that I think was something like "God be with us." Of course, the leopard was quite dead back to the left of the tree. Lying on his side in some high grass.

While the trackers were commiserating, the Ph offered to show the game scout where the leopard came from. As he approached where the leopard was lying dead, he pushed the game scout above the leopard.
It was hilarious, actually.

I shot a leopard in Tanzania, he dropped stone dead under the tree.

The branch over looked a dry river bed, which was coved in dead leaves.

We coved the leopard with leaves, took some blood from him on a few leaves and dropped them in line as if he was running up the bank.

As our trackers arrived, with big smiles on their faces.

Alan explained to them that the leopard is wounded, and ran up the bank.

The smiles disappeared.

They started walking up the bank following the blood drops, each is pushing the other forward.

We did this for a bit, and as the blood trail disappeared, we went back to the tree.

As we went into the dry river bed, we maneuvered one of the trackers towards where we buried the leopard.

He stepped on it, and slipped, looking down he saw the leopard.

He went ballistic!

They were kidding him for a while afterwards, about how can a dead leopard scare you!

quote:

Then started the purring. If you haven't heard a leopard purr, it's loud.

That rasping sound is similar to that of a tree trunk being sawed and it is quite common as the tom is announcing his territorial rights ... and presence.

Fulvio,

I wasn't talking about the sawing sound of a male declaring his territory, I was talking about a male and female courting and "purring". Both cats were doing it. Close. Really cool. I know I'll hear another male saw, but don't know if I'll ever hear that interaction between a male and a female again.
They were rubbing on the dry dead palm fronds and purring. Made a hell of a lot of noise.

quote:

I was talking about a male and female courting and "purring". Both cats were doing it. Close. Made a hell of a lot of noise.

I have had several girlfriends doing the same (in my younger days) ... I was worried the neighbors might wake up.

I shot an impala late one afternoon, across a small valley,just before dusk. Just me and my PH. We walked down and then back up to recover the animal, then dragged it a hundred yards or so up the hill to a road. PH radioed for the truck and gave him directions to the pick-up spot. The tracker / driver was a valley or two away, waiting with my wife. We had posed the impala for pics and were starting to take them when they arrived. It was dark by this time, so dark we were using lights for the photos. The tracker slipped off somewhere after we had loaded the ram and were hanging around chatting, having a cold one. In a few minutes he came back from the bottom of the valley, and holding out his hand in that demure manner that they do, with his off hand over his wrist, offered me my bullet.

The one that had killed the ram, and passed through into a hillside across the valley, while he was a mile away. In the dark.

Fulvio:

To younger days!

quote:

Originally posted by Flipper Dude:
I shot an impala late one afternoon, across a small valley,just before dusk. Just me and my PH. We walked down and then back up to recover the animal, then dragged it a hundred yards or so up the hill to a road. PH radioed for the truck and gave him directions to the pick-up spot. The tracker / driver was a valley or two away, waiting with my wife. We had posed the impala for pics and were starting to take them when they arrived. It was dark by this time, so dark we were using lights for the photos. The tracker slipped off somewhere after we had loaded the ram and were hanging around chatting, having a cold one. In a few minutes he came back from the bottom of the valley, and holding out his hand in that demure manner that they do, with his off hand over his wrist, offered me my bullet.

The one that had killed the ram, and passed through into a hillside across the valley, while he was a mile away. In the dark.

May I ask why you had your wallet out with you in the bush?

I carry nothing but my rifle, ammo, a camera and some hard sweets.

Everything stays at camp.

Were following a group of three elephant bulls in hilly country. Came up to a deep korongo. Old bull was in the bottom. While trying to line up an awkward shot, the askaris approached pinning us against the bank of the karongo. The oldest bull ran up the other side and the young bulls backed off. I had a quartering away shot on the old bull, but he went down front legs first. The Ph's and my follow up to the lungs were almost simoutanious. He rolled down the hill and stuck on a tree. I put in a finishing shot to the bottom of the brisket into the heart. The tree collapsed and he rolled down the hill seemingly in slow motion, knocking down trees all the way down, coming to rest in the bottom of the karongo.

quote:

Originally posted by Saeed:

quote:

Originally posted by Flipper Dude:
I shot an impala late one afternoon, across a small valley,just before dusk. Just me and my PH. We walked down and then back up to recover the animal, then dragged it a hundred yards or so up the hill to a road. PH radioed for the truck and gave him directions to the pick-up spot. The tracker / driver was a valley or two away, waiting with my wife. We had posed the impala for pics and were starting to take them when they arrived. It was dark by this time, so dark we were using lights for the photos. The tracker slipped off somewhere after we had loaded the ram and were hanging around chatting, having a cold one. In a few minutes he came back from the bottom of the valley, and holding out his hand in that demure manner that they do, with his off hand over his wrist, offered me my bullet.

The one that had killed the ram, and passed through into a hillside across the valley, while he was a mile away. In the dark.

May I ask why you had your wallet out with you in the bush?

I carry nothing but my rifle, ammo, a camera and some hard sweets.

Everything stays at camp.

I never carry my wallet. Or my camera. Wife carries the camera. PH had a cell phone.

I’ve got some ammo and a pocketknife. Cuz I’ve always got a pocketknife.

quote:

Originally posted by Flipper Dude:

quote:

Originally posted by Saeed:

quote:

Originally posted by Flipper Dude:
I shot an impala late one afternoon, across a small valley,just before dusk. Just me and my PH. We walked down and then back up to recover the animal, then dragged it a hundred yards or so up the hill to a road. PH radioed for the truck and gave him directions to the pick-up spot. The tracker / driver was a valley or two away, waiting with my wife. We had posed the impala for pics and were starting to take them when they arrived. It was dark by this time, so dark we were using lights for the photos. The tracker slipped off somewhere after we had loaded the ram and were hanging around chatting, having a cold one. In a few minutes he came back from the bottom of the valley, and holding out his hand in that demure manner that they do, with his off hand over his wrist, offered me my bullet.

The one that had killed the ram, and passed through into a hillside across the valley, while he was a mile away. In the dark.

May I ask why you had your wallet out with you in the bush?

I carry nothing but my rifle, ammo, a camera and some hard sweets.

Everything stays at camp.

I never carry my wallet. Or my camera. Wife carries the camera. PH had a cell phone.

I’ve got some ammo and a pocketknife. Cuz I’ve always got a pocketknife.

You have to laugh at this!

I thought your bullet was your wallet!??

Having had Walter take his wallet, his passport and his air ticket to the bush.

My apologies.

Not a problem, Saeed. Thought as much. You must admit a 180 TSX shot through an animal at some undisclosed location is harder to find in the dark than a wallet.

Flipper,

Absolutely amazing that they found it. I can relate to how they probably presented it to you.
In my experience it's usually been at the dinner table from the skinning shed. Finding it outside the animal is incredible.

Last trip, I shot a hippo on land head on for lion bait and the locals busted their tail to help us recover it. They asked for about 100 pounds of neck meat, which we gave them willingly. If I was them, I'd have asked for the tenderloins and backstraps, which we'd have given equally willingly. The next time we were through that camp, they presented me with what was left of my Swift A Frame that they recovered from the neck meat we left with them.

The 24 year old Zimbabwean PH wanted me to lung shoot the elephant bull if we got the opportunity. Fair enough.

Some days later the great bull came out of the trees and was walking broadside to us.

It then turned and walked towards me. I was using a 416 Remington in a beautiful left handed Sako rifle.

The 1.5x5 x Leupold had a 2 minute dot and I put the dot right between its eyes and as it was down to 30 yards and remembering what Capstick had said about the angle on such a shot - I lowered the dot about 4 inches and pulled the trigger.

Killed it stone cold dead right in front of me. I ran up the few yards and was joined by the young PH.

His exact words, ' When I saw that you could not do a shot in the lungs I ran away!'

Hell, in those few seconds I had forgotten that he had even existed.

He probably should not have told me that.

On my first African hunt I was hunting in the very dry south of Namibia. The climate there is great for oryx and springbock, but kudu tend to struggle a bit there and don't grow that large.

Despite this, I wanted a kudu, so we hunted the dry river beds where they have a little more cover and browse. Some cows sprang across the dry bed in front of us and my guide said "Get ready, there will be a bull behind them". Sure enough, an unusually nice bull emerged from the brush and I put one in him as he loped across the opening.

It took just a bit to find him in the brush on the opposite side, but when we came upon him down in the sand my guide exclaimed "That one will go Gold! We guarantee people they will NOT kill a Gold one here!" I replied, "Well, in that case I'll collect on that guarantee and ask for my trophy fee back !"

I hope this thread keeps going. Lot's of good stuff there. The first time I had a female game scout was in 2008 in the Selous. We found tracks of a big herd going into some riverine forest. It was dark and thick in there and you couldn't see more than ten or twenty yards at most. We spent a couple of hours sorting the herd but found no good bulls. Had a lot of buffalo really close though. Watching the wind, I have to admit it was a bit stressful. The female game scout was not happy during this entire process. Once we finally gave up, we started walking back to the car. Bumped a bull elephant that made a bit of a demonstration. He wasn't serious, but he was close. The game scout was sick on both ends.

Day or two later, we took off after a couple of bulls late afternoon. We didn't get a shot and had to walk back in the dark. She didn't like that much either. After that, she refused to leave the car.

I've had great female game scouts since, but she was horrible.

I think most of our old members remember how I met Roy.

Over 40 years we have been hunting together, and both our families are grateful for that meeting.

He is retired now, and we both hunt with his son, Alan.

Who was a little kid the first time I hunted with his father.

I have pictures of him sitting on my first elephant.

Roy loves big bores, and he never stopped complaining about me using what he calls "minimum" calibers, as I hunted with 270 and 375 rifles.

His attitude was always get as close as you get, then 10 yards closer!

He used to say "wait for him to give you a good angle for your shot"

Years later he would say "shoot him up the arse!"

Anyway, this is to give you all an idea that our hunts together are a bit different than the normal hunts.

Alan used to be our camera man, now Roy is the camera man.

At any given moment, at least one of us three would do something funny to screw the hunt up.

Sometimes I wonder how we manage to ever shoot anything.

Last year, driving along we came across the tracks of a herd of buffalo.

We stopped and got off the truck.

The herd was feeding through a valley, which was about 200 meters wide, and narrows as it went.

We were walking towards the narrow end.

Long grass in patches, and the tracks were hard to see.

Our trackers kept looking for the tracks along the edge, and we walked ahead on the side of the valley.

We were at the narrow end, may be 25 yards wide, when suddenly an old bull comes out walking towards us.

He did not see us as we dropped behind a clump of grass.

I was worried he might see us, and bolt back into the forest, so I put a bullet into his head.

He dropped.

Roy said "why did you shoot him in the head?"

"Where do you want me to shoot him then?"

"You should have waited for him to get closer. He did not see us, and he could have passed right next to us"

"Did you take a video of the shot?"

"Of course I did not! You did not give a chance to turn the camera on!"

One of my best shots, and he missed it!

Our trackers and game scout turned up, scratching their heads when they saw the bull on the ground.

I said "Alan, why do we have such useless trackers? We find our buffalo without them!"

Ha! Gotta love head shots. Dramatic results.

If close enough, and clear enough, I shoot them in the head.

I must have shot dozens and dozens of buffalo this way.

Never fails.

Mine's a little more pedestrian....

we were quail hunting in a waterway with two brittany's - who were belled - and the bells stop. On point. I wade in and I'm kicking and kicking and I kick something hard - thought it was a dog. Then I hear the collar bells a few yards away. Uh oh.

I start backing up and, of course, trip. Big 'ol raccoon boils out of the grass at my feet. I can't shoot him - dogs are there. Dog bites coon. Coon turns to him - which gave me just enough time to get up. we got the dogs corralled and shot the coon. I had to do it all, as everyone else was laughing so hard they couldn't see....

At about 5:00 in the afternoon, the trackers spotted a small herd of wildebeest in the Mkuyu River bed about three quarters of a mile ahead. We immediately told Nchimbi to stop the truck. Pedro and I, using our binoculars, looked over the wildebeest herd, and were excited to see a small herd of zebra following them. Zebra had been scarce so far on this safari, and when we had seen them, they had been too far away or too skittish to hunt. But we now saw at least a dozen of them placidly grazing along the river bed, unaware of our presence.

Kayai led us on a quick and well-planned stalk, off to the left down the river bank and into the wind. Within about thirty minutes, we were within shooting distance of the zebra, which were across the river, about 125 yards away. Pedro set up the sticks and I put up my .375. I had an excellent view of a big stallion, and lined him up in the crosshairs as I pressed the trigger. He went down at the shot, hit squarely broadside, low in the shoulder.

The other zebras galloped away, and one of them stopped, after about 50 yards or so, and looked back at the fallen stallion. Pedro said, “Take him if you’re sure of your shot.” Since I had already cycled the action, I was ready and fired again. I was surprised to see that this shot had no visible effect on the zebra, who bolted off into the tall grass. We ran across the shallow river, paused briefly at the first zebra, which was stone dead, and ran up to where the other one had been standing when I shot it. There was a good deal of blood on the ground and on the grass at flank height, so off we went after the second zebra.

We followed swiftly after the wounded zebra for over two miles back into the bush, which was becoming increasingly hilly. Up one side of a hill and down the other, across small streams and through the brush and tall grass we moved, never running, but always hiking very quickly, and pausing once in a while to listen. From a point that was halfway down one side of a deep ravine, we saw the zebra on the other side, just a little above us. It was clearly hurt and sick, and was lying down in the grass facing away from us.

By this time, it was nearly 6:00 p.m., and I was sure that if we spooked the wounded stallion, we would lose him in the darkness. So, as Lengaisi pointed him out, I rested the .375 on the sticks and took the best shot I had. I heard the bullet strike. I had aimed for the root of the zebra’s spine, hoping to disable him so that we could move in for the kill, but he instantly jumped from his bed, and before I could shoot again, he had galloped off to the right, where I lost him in the brush.

We then sprinted down the steep side of the ravine after the zebra. As we reached the bottom, we could hear him galloping somewhere ahead of us. I then saw the zebra break through some brush off to the left and noticed that he seemed to be coming in our direction. When I first saw him clearly, he was on a course to pass in front of me about ten yards away. I thought I would have a pretty clear passing shot and readied myself. But the zebra quickly changed course a full ninety degrees and headed straight toward me. This was incredible! I was being charged head on by a wounded zebra!

I heard his hooves pounding the earth and saw his lips peeled back over a set of choppers the size of piano keys. I also heard the trackers and Pedro, who were all off to my left and slightly behind me, shouting out, as if from somewhere deep in my subconscious, “Piga! Piga! Piga!” which is Swahili for “Shoot! Shoot! Shoot!” I knew what I had to do, but I must confess that I froze up. Sheer amazement at what was happening overcame even my instinct of self-preservation. I simply stared, open-mouthed, at the oncoming mayhem.

Then finally, from a distance of less than ten feet, as the six hundred pound zebra galloped straight at me, I snapped to my senses and fired from the hip. The zebra collapsed and hit the ground six feet from the muzzle. My bullet had struck it square in the chest, at the base of its neck, and killed it outright. God does, at least sometimes, look out for the foolish.

I was flat-out dumbfounded. I had been charged by a zebra! Not a buffalo, nor a lion, nor a leopard, nor an elephant, but a bloody punda milia! I turned toward the trackers and must have looked as stupid as I felt. In a second, all of them were laughing themselves silly, literally falling down and holding their sides. The best I could do was smile like the idiot I was, and try not to fall down as the trackers slapped my back.

Pedro, on the other hand, looked a bit pale. I had been standing between him and the zebra, so he had been unable to shoot, and I think he must have wondered whether I would kill the zebra before it ran me down and created the need for a lot of explanations and paperwork. But given the trackers’ antics, and my obvious embarrassment, even Pedro finally cracked a smile.

By this time, the sky had become noticeably darker. There was no way to get the truck back in these woods, and there was no way that we were going to carry a six hundred pound zebra out whole. So, at Pedro’s urging, our now all-too-merry men unsheathed their knives and began skinning the zebra right then and there. I saw as they worked that my first shot had been high and too far forward. Still, my first bullet had struck a hard blow to the zebra, and I was amazed that he could have carried on as long as he had with such a terrible wound.

As darkness descended, Pedro decided that he would leave his .375 with our three trackers and that he, M’zee and I would head back to the first zebra at double time, to field dress it and keep the lions and hyenas away. We then made our way back to the first zebra and signaled Lindy and Nchimbi, who had waited behind in the truck, to come up and help us out.

Lindy took some pictures as daylight dwindled. My first punda milia had distinct and cleanly drawn stripes, with none of the “shadow” striping sometimes seen in Burchell’s zebras. As Lindy snapped the last few shots, we could hear the eerie whooping of hyenas, who had smelled the blood and were approaching from somewhere in the near distance. Sooner or later, they were going to come and see what this ruckus was all about.

Nchimbi took out one of the big German kitchen knives and gutted the zebra, so that we could put it whole into the back of the truck. This was not an easy job even for four men, but we somehow managed to do it. We waited in the gathering gloom for the trackers to return with the other zebra’s skin. It was after 7:00 p.m. when we saw the beam of their flashlight bobbing through the brush as they approached. We whistled in the dark in order to draw them to us.

They finally arrived, to great laughter — all at my well-earned expense, of course. There was much and repeated recounting of the story of the savage zebra charge to Nchimbi and Lindy. Much of this was spoken in Swahili, of course. Kayai and Ngossoro leapt up and down, and pointed and hooted, and their white teeth flashed with the telling of the tale. With Nchimbi’s help, Lindy and I were able to follow the gist of it, and I especially understood the repeated refrain, “Piga! Piga! Piga!”

I will never forget this zebra hunt. As I reflected on it that night in camp, I was reminded of a story that Robert Ruark told in Horn of the Hunter about a shot-but-not-quite-dead zebra that jumped into his hunting car and attacked his PH, the now famous, but then youthful, Harry Selby. Ruark had written:

“[The zebra] was awful to see—bloody, fierce, making a stallion’s angry fighting squeal with his mouth distended and those huge yellow teeth, which can snap off an arm, bared in an equine snarl and his mouth looking bigger and wider and fuller of teeth than any lion’s. He was flailing the air with razor forefeet, each hoof capable of splitting your skull right down to your Adam’s apple.”

Later, after Ruark had shot the zebra at point blank range in the front seat of the car and the tension had been broken, everyone in his party had dissolved in laughter, just as we had done.

Of course, as I now realized, a zebra attack is only funny when the zebra loses. And there’s sure as hell no guarantee that the zebra will lose. The watchword for me in Africa, when hunting dangerous game or anything else, and I do mean anything else, will forever be: Shoot, and keep on shooting, until the animal you are shooting at is truly, sincerely and irretrievably dead!

Great story Mike.

In 2015, we were riding in the gari approaching a 90 degree left turn as the road dead ended into the Wuku River. There was a lone old dugga boy about 100 yards beyond where the track turned left, but very uncharacteristically, he didn't turn and run, he just stood his ground and shook his head aggressively. We kept rolling making the left turn and going about a half mile or so down the road before bailing out.

No need for trackers, so just Blake and I walked back to check out this bull. We found him standing in shin deep water in a pool along the Wuku bank; he was quartering away showing me his right side. He stumbled at the shot and I thought he was going down in the water, but he recovered and motored out of there, then switched back to run for cover from my right to my left, now on dry ground. I swung on him intending to hit him in the brachial plexus, but knew I'd overswung when the trigger broke. Nevertheless, he just collapsed and went down belly first in a cloud of dust.

At the buffalo, we had a hard time finding the second shot. It entered right at the base of the boss, braining him.

During the recovery, we thought we'd found the reason for his aggressive reaction initially, as we found a muzzleloader slug made from a battery core, about .75 inches in diameter and over an inch long in his rumen. The skinners later found a round ball over a half inch in diameter up his nasal cavity. Both wounds had healed over. No wonder he didn't like people.

The guys gave me a hard time about taking that right sided quartering shot because it did some serious damage to the liver.

Hunting in Tanzania, we saw a herd of eland far away, feeding in a clearing, and heading into some thickets.

Got downwind of them, and tried to get close.

We did, to within a hundred yards or so.

The bush was thick, and all we could see is a bit of skin as they passed through the bush.

This went on for a while, then Alan said "get ready, the bull is behind that cow passing there, try to see if you can get a shot"

The cow passed, then I could see his head coming - the gap was not large enough to see all his head.

As he walked by, I tried judging where his chest is and fired.

All hell broke loose.

We ran after them.

Tracks going in every direction.

Six of us, me, Roy and Alan. Two trackers and a game scout.

Looked and looked, no sign of our eland.

Alan said "this is ridiculous! I thought I heard him fall. may be your magic bullets have run out of magic!"

We went back to where they were before the shot, saw where he had jumped at the shot.

But there was no way to follow his tracks, because of other tracks.

Again, we started looking.

Then, 5 yards ahead of us, was a dead eland.

Apparently we were passing right and left of him, only a few yards away, and never saw him.

We found a muzzle loader's lead ball embedded in his neck muscles.

Just under the skin, so could not have caused him any trouble.

We finally reached the last vestige of cover on the small, sandy island and were just short of 100 yards away from the leading buffalo bulls. That was a bit farther away than I would have liked, but there was nothing but open sand and a shallow river between us and them.

Fréderic whispered that the two bulls at the head of the herd, which were closest to the river, were the best he could see — not huge or even particularly big in the horn department, but old and gray-faced with good bosses.

He told me that I could take either one, depending on which of them presented the better target. Slowly, the second bull turned toward the river and gave me a classic broadside shot. As Fred and the Maasai put their fingers in their ears, I held just an inch or so behind his right shoulder and fired.

My .458 Lott boomed, and then I heard the “thunk” of the 500 grain Woodleigh Weldcore soft nosed bullet hit the buffalo. I knew from the feel of it that my shot had been a good one. But this big bull showed no sign of any distress whatsoever. Despite the fact that he had just absorbed nearly three tons of destructive bullet energy, he merely began to trot slowly toward the river, along with the rest of the large herd behind him.

Even though I knew the bullet had hit home, it looked to me as though this big buff had been uninjured in any way. For all I could tell from his total lack of reaction, I might have missed him cleanly. All of this passed through my mind in a split second.

I knew I had to shoot him again, and try to stop him before he got too far into the water or worse, across it. Even though the water was quite shallow, it was nearly dark by now, and none of us wanted to have to drag this buff out of the middle of the river—or worse, follow and hunt for him in the heavy brush that choked the far bank.

So, I rapidly fired four Woodleigh 500 grain solids at the running buffalo, and was rewarded by hearing each of them hit. As the second bullet struck him, I saw the bull stumble, but still he didn’t fall. The next two staggered him, but again he struggled forward. Almost at the same time as I fired the fifth shot, the buff fell down, approximately 15-20 feet into the river. He emitted a long, low, rasping and guttural bellow and died where he lay.

There was no time at all to reflect on what I had done. When my bull died, the entire herd of approximately 100 or so animals wheeled to the right, and galloped full out toward our position. They hadn’t seen us and didn’t know where we were, but since our way was the path of least resistance, they had collectively decided to head towards us fast.

I was simultaneously exhilarated and alarmed. All I could think was - “My rifle is empty!” So, I stuffed the magazine full of five more Woodleigh solids as fast as my fumbling hands would work, slammed the bolt closed and confirmed that the safety was off.

After some quick mental arithmetic, and despite the excitement, I figured out that my five rounds plus Fred’s four probably wouldn’t stop, and might not even turn, this charging horde. But I held my rifle at port arms anyway, and made ready to follow Fred’s lead.

As I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Fred had decided to pursue a negotiated peace. He rose from the sand beside me, held his rifle aloft, and whistled and shouted at the stampeding buffalo. I couldn’t help but wonder whether this tactic was really going to work, not to mention what we would do if it didn’t. No trees were handy, even if we could have managed to climb one.

Then the Maasai also got up and joined in Fred’s efforts. Not to be outdone, I followed suit, and, in a wink, we were all waving, whistling and hooting at the onrushing buffalo horde. To my relief, the herd began to peel away to our right and cross the river.

One big, contrary, pissed-off, nasty looking cow stayed behind. She stopped about twenty yards away and stared at us for at least a half a minute. Fred yelled a few choice curse words at her, in at least two languages, and after that she finally elected, in her sole discretion, to follow the rest of the herd across the river and into the tall grass on the far bank.

We waited for the truck to come down off the ridge and then used it and some stout ropes to drag my buff out of the river.

He wasn’t the widest buffalo in the Selous by a long shot, but he was an old man with a big, hard boss, and he would supply plenty of buffalo steaks for our meat-hungry camp, as well as lion baits galore. I would have the taxidermist mount his skull and horns on a wooden shield, in the European manner.

Our Islamic game scout, Abdalah, picked up a knife and managed to accomplish a quick, albeit post mortem, hallal. Somehow, it seemed to me, the infliction of multiple mortal gunshot wounds prior to the “slaughtering” might screw things up from an orthodox Muslim point of view.

But Abdalah himself didn’t let that spoil his efforts, or his enjoyment of buffalo roast that night or, as far as I could tell, any night that followed for quite some time.

That was not the first or last time I have seen religion in more than one faith take a back seat to hunger.

As Mike has mentioned above.

Religion is normally used to get what you want.

Driving one afternoon, and saw some impala in Tanzania.

The game scout said to Alan that he was a Muslim, and would like me to shoot him an impala from his rations, because he is a Muslim and would like to hallal it.

Alan asked me if I mind shooting an impala for him.

I said I would be very happy too.

I shot a buck for him.

And informed him he does not need to hallal it.

As me being a Muslim, I whisper BISMELAH ALRAHMAN ALRAHEEM before I pull the trigger, and that hallals the animal.

He was quite happy with my answer.

He never mentioned that he was happily eating all the meat he wanted before.

First day with a new PH to me. Jumped a herd of eland and they ran off. Was around lunch time, so went and had lunch and a nap then went to cut their tracks. Found the tracks and tracked the herd to where they milled around to feed. That took some time to sort out which way they'd gone.

Came up on the herd. They had joined with two giraffe. There were two bulls in the herd. I asked the PH which bull I should shoot and he indicated the one on the far side of the herd, near the giraffes. I took the shot and the bull kicked, typical heart shot. The herd milled a bit and then ran across the track of where our bull would likely run.

The PH asked me how my shot looked and I told him I got a really good shot at the biggest orange one. He gave me a horrified look before he realized I was joking and then the trackers and the PH took off after the herd.

I stayed behind and went to where the bull was standing when I shot. I found where he dug in at the shot and followed his tracks. The PH realized that he had lost his client and came back, but by that time, I'd found the bull, dead.

Made a good impression on the guys, but the PH kept a pretty close eye on me for the rest of that trip.

Hunting in South Africa, I had a fantastically funny PH.

He always provided us with plenty of laughs.

Driving along, we say a nyala standing right on the road about 100 yards ahead of us.

We stopped, and Walter got his rifle ready to shoot it.

The Ph said "let me have a look first"

He got his binos, and starting looking.

Walter, meanwhile, was running out of patience, and kept saying "yes or no? Yes or no?"

over and over.

The PH said yes.

Walter fired and the nyala walked a couple of steps and dropped.

Our hunting car had a step on one side, but not the other.

We got to the nyala, and Walter was trying to get off the truck quickly.

On the wrong side of the truck, that had no step.

He put his foot down, and landed on free space, and continued down to land on his face on the ground.

The PH said "Walter, if I had know you needed the step I would have turned the truck around!"

Walter was not too impressed, especially as all of us had tears coming down our cheeks!

Another time we were just out of camp, and driving along next to a big mountain.

"STOP" he screamed at the driver.

"He took his binoculars and started looking towards the top of the mountain.

"Holly macarooni! I can see the GRANDAD of all impalas in South Africa!"

I said "where is it?"

He is right up there just below the top. Let me turn the truck around and you can shoot him right from here!"

"That is MILES away" I said .

"I saw how you dropped that black wildebeest Walter wounded. Just do the same thing here"

We turned the truck, and I shot the impala, and he started rolling down the mountain "Keep coming boy! Keep coming!"

Our Ph kept saying.

"See? That was not too difficult, was it?" He said .

"The bullet must have dropped onto him. I was aiming at the top of the mountain"

"Where were you aiming at the wildebeest? There was no mountain there.

One day we were trying to shoot a blesbok.

There was a herd of about 100 or more, on the opposite side of a hill facing us.

Alan Vincent was our camera man.

PH "Do you see the 37th from the left, second line down? Shoot that one."

As I was trying to find that one, Alan said "He moved, I think. The 37th is a cow"

"Oh, yes Alan, you are right man. Saeed, count from the right side, topline, shoot number 24"

This went on for a while, and we ended up shooting nothing.

Both Alan and me were crying with laughter.

Even now hunting together with Alan, we bring up that occasion.

not quite that complicated, but it is important to understand with you PH what facing to the right or left means. Your right, or the animal's right.
Was in the Selous and we came upon a herd of impala. I asked which one and the PH said the one facing right. There was only one facing to our right, so I drilled him. The PH said I missed and I said not hardly. I promised him I hit the animal. So they crew tracked the animal he wanted me to shoot and I went to where the animal I shot was standing. Damu.

He was facing to my right. The PH meant the animal facing to the animal's right, my left. Total miscommunication.

quote:

He was facing to my right. The PH meant the animal facing to the animal's right, my left. Total miscommunication.

When instructed "the one facing right" its the animal that is being looked at and not one facing to ITS right ... which to the shooter would be "facing left".

If that is how this PH identifies the target, something says there have been a lot of screw-ups.

I think it takes more than that for good communication between PH and client.

I never carry binoculars.

I look through my rifle scope.

Once an animal is picked, I keep it in my sight.

As soon as a opening for a shot presents itself, I take it.

We never gave problems, because we both know which one is in question.

We talk all the time the animal is moving in the herd for instance, which leaves no doubt which we both mean.

The previous hunt in a different country had been filled with a great deal of stress. Sitting half frozen in a flimsy blind .. in the dark.. while the thunderous roars of lion had spooked my lady quite severely.

After a couple of nights of this she insisted on staying back at the camp. The wonderful cook, who was the mother of the PH had just come in from Rhodesia where she and her husband lived on an isolated farm under constant danger from the 'terrs'.

Ma would sit around the camp fire at night with a glass of Scotch and a cigarette and tell my lady of life in Rhodesia.

I also left the old lady a 12 gauge shotgun as a previous employee (named Malawi') had knifed to death another worker and was said to be living somewhere in the area and had a grudge against the PH.

I had no doubt that if he came looking for trouble with his trusty knife - my fierce lady cook would send the SOB to the Promised Land.

Malawi never did come calling and after a few nights I persuaded my wife that it was safer with two armed men in a lion blind.

A lioness nearly did give me the chop but decided to go elsewhere - and if nothing else - look for a new boyfriend.

A few days later we were at a hunting camp in the Okahandja area. The country was still called South West Africa.

We were told that the cage on the outside of the windows were to have grenades fall outside of the building and not blow all to hell the sleepers.

There was a party line and twice a day everyone got on the line and said that they were o.k. If someone did not sound off - everyone else grabbed their machine guns and hared it over to the remote farm.

Interesting. Mighty interesting.

The first night we were in bed when the dogs (released after everyone had gone to bed) started barking and men started shouting and that was followed by rifle fire!

And my lady had thought lions roaring were startling.

As it turns out, it was during a rabies outbreak and a jackal had come into came even though the big dogs were out.

Not normal and they assumed that it had rabies.

I looked at the poor critter in dawn's early light. It had a about a 6 inch porcupine quill in its eye.

Some humorous stories. Was hunting in a new concession to the outfitter where there had been some poaching before he took it over and his anti-poaching hadn't had the opportunity to get on top of it yet. We had game department and army in camp to address it and guards were posted at night.

One morning before daylight started as usual. Hodi! Karibu! They set the tray with the tea on the table and I started to put my boots on. They took my rifles to the gari.

Was sitting there in my tent enjoying my cup of tea looking forward to a day of hunting when there was a gunshot. Very close and definitely in camp. I made a mad dash for the car where my rifles had been taken. Turns out, one of the game scout security guards had an accidental discharge. He was rather sheepish after that.

No one needed a cup of coffee to wake up that morning!

In 2012, we were hunting in Simanjiro, Luke Samaras's old concession. We were in the fly camp, for those familiar with it. We usually had lunch in the field, but on this one occasion, we were close to camp around lunchtime, so we opted for a hot lunch. We were sitting in the dining tent having a cold Coke while the staff stirred up lunch in the kitchen, which was just under a tarp. All of a sudden, there was a hell of a commotion in the kitchen.
A lot of banging and clanging and a liberal amount of profanity in Swahili. It was a hell of a ruckus that went on for some time.

The camp manager came running to where we were sitting, totally out of breath, and asked, "Do ... You ... [huff] want to shoot ... [huff, huff] a baboon?"

I smiled and said, Hapana.

But it is the best excuse for slow service I've ever heard.

We were hunting in Chete, Zimbabwe.

A friend wanted to shoot an impala, and we knew just the place where to find them.

There was an open area with a spring, and all sorts of animals come to drink there.

Next to that there was a hill, with a large tree at the top from which place one can shoot.

Sure enough, there was a herd of impala there, and I gave my rifle to my friend, and off he went with Roy.

We stood back to see what happens.

My friend had a bit of a problem, as he fired several shots, and we could see no impala down.

Now, I know some of you, especially those with nasty minds, would think of this.

I had brought with me some stage blood. And kept it in my camera bag, to play a joke on someone.

I ran to the truck as everyone was making their way down, and got the little tube of blood.

I gave it to Alan, asking him to drop a few drops here and there leading into the bush.

We got down, and found our dead impala.

Alan walked along the path where the rest of the herd has ran, and kept dropping bits of blood.

I said "Hey Roy! There is blood here!"

Roy "Where?"

"Here, look. This is where the rest of herd went off. He must have wounded another one"

"That is all we need. A wounded female. We have no license for that. Bloody German! Cannot shoot straight and get us into this mess"

We carried on following the false blood.

"It looks very red blood"

"That is because it is a muscle wound"

This went on for a while, and I just could not keep from laughing.

Roy got the message, as he has been at the receiving end of another joke.

Another impala story again, with the same hunter.

We were by the Luzi River, which feeds into Lake Kariba. So many dead trees by the bank in a flat area where impala like to feed.

Roy says "Klaus, shoot that impala ram"

"Which one?"

"The one by the dead tree"

"Which dead tree, there are many"

There were so many impala, and so many dead trees.

Not an African story but anyway:
40 odd years ago I took a young chap called Allan into the Urewera National Park, NZ. We climbed the Galatea faces looking for Javan Rusa then crossed the watershed into Red deer country. I remembered a possum-hunter's plastic-sheet bivouc so we headed towards that for the night. We found it just on dark but it had been burnt down. Only the two corrugated iron sheets which had formed the chimney remained. The ground was very rocky and uneven so we decided to try and sleep on the corrugated iron which made a relatively flat surface. Big mistake! If you are tempted to try it I suggest you sleep on the rocks instead.
Anyway, I eventually got to sleep but was woken in the pitch dark night by someone stroking my cheek. I wasn't too sure of the sexual preferences of young Allan so I switched a light on, only to find there was a Brush-Tailed Possum sitting on my chest and his tail was stroking my face. The varmint jumped onto the tree beside us so I picked up our axe and swung a mighty blow.
Allan sat up at the noise just in time for a lump of entrails, followed by a scratchy possum, to land on his head.
He never came hunting with me again!

Saeed, you're a cruel man, but with a sense of humor.

The Pom,

Reminds me of a fishing trip years ago before GPS when we relied on a compass. Took a friend fishing and we were not in sight of land. I did the reverse calculations in my head, but ran into an offshore drilling operation I wasn't expecting. I knew I'd missed the mark, so I shut the motor off and drug out the map to do a little recalculating. My friend was very concerned about why I shut the motor off:
Why are we stopping? Why did you shut it down? What if it won't start? Etc. Simple, I said, I'm low on gas and temporarily lost, so I have to hit the dock rather precisely. Shut up and let me do my math.

Worked out fine, but he never fished with me again.

Love the hunting stories, but let's expand it to tent pets. I've had lizards under the bathtub (you can guess where that was), wall spiders and Fred. I got rather attached to Fred. He was a green chura (frog) that lived in my shower. I gently moved Fred to the edge of the shower every time I took one so we didn't have any unfortunate accidents. He waited patiently to the side every day until I was done, but then greeted me every day on my shower drain.

We were hunting in Westwood, Zimbabwe, on the Zambezi River.

There was an open plain, which had a water pump installed to pump water for the animals there.

Most of the time we find something in that plain.

The plain is quite long, and the track runs along one side of it, seperating the plain and the track was a stretch of mpane trees, varying between 100 and 50 yards wide.

We stopped about half a mile away, to walk in that mopane stretch to get to the water hole to see if we could find anything.

Walter walks rather slowly, so we left him behind to catch up with us.

We got the open plain, and we could not see anything.

We sat down waiting for Walter.

Suddenly we see an old lioness appear from the forest, walking right on our tracks.

She passed no more than 20 yards from us, we were right in the open, but she paid us no attention at all, just continued walking.

We got worried about Walter, as she must have passed him.

A few minutes later, Walter appears, totally ignorant of the fact!

Saeed, funny.

Let me introduce Fred. Fred was a churra (frog) that lived on my shower drain in the Selous in 2008. I nudged him to the side when I took a shower so I wouldn't step on him and we both got wet down. He was there the next evening, sitting on the drain waiting for his next bath.