But you are allowed to add to it, as we all do.

Well my story involves an Impala ram, not just any Impala ram, but a Rasputin ram. And a rifle, not just any rifle, but an Imman Meffert scoped drilling with a sidelever, in caliber 8x57JR and 16 gauge with 2 3/4" chambers. It was not always a 2 3/4", for Keith Kearcher in Bend Oregon lengthened the chambers for me just prior to my leaving for Africa, where one cannot purchase the shorter shells envisioned by Imman himself almost a century prior, when he built the gun for an unknown client. But one can purchase 16 gauge ammunition in Africa, provided you order it well in advance. It was waiting for me when I arrived, not just any ammunition, but English Eley ammunition with purple cases loaded with English number five shot, which we Americans would call sixes. No logic to that, but there you have it. And not just any scope, for the original scope supplied by Imman to his unknown client had been separated from the gun, as so many are, but a prewar Kahles four power that I purchased separately and then sent to Austria to be cleaned and adjusted, before mounting it myself in claw mounts that I hand-fitted to the claw bases still on the rifle. Well I had to remove the original front base and substitute the base that came with the rings, from where exactly I do not recall now, for claw mounts are not standardized in their dimensions. I was able to adjust the ring to fit the rear mount that Imman provided, but not the front. I removed that but kept it with the gun for history's sake. Even though all of this took place a long time ago, before the cancer, but I do recall soldering the half rings to the optic before fitting it to the rifle, a painstaking process of trial and adjust, trial and adjust, until it sat down snug on the engraved bases inlet into the beautifully-matted top rib, and the rear closure slid forward with a little stiffness to lock the scope in place. I showed the result to Mark Cromwell of NECG at a Vintagers event in upstate New York, and he blessed it. Which is no small thing because he probably knows more about claw mounts than any other man currently living, in North America at least.

So with my early twentieth century drilling, more correctly a Drieling with a slight stutter on the "r", broken down and packed securely in a hard case, which in turn slid into the bottom of my Orvis duffel beneath my hunting coat, boots and other personal items, two boxes of one hundred and ninety six grain Sellier and Bellot ammunition with it, and four boxes of those Eley purple number fives already waiting for me in Africa, I boarded a flight to Johannesburg sometime in the late summer of the early twenty first century.

TO BE CONTINUED

My story is a short one.

We were hunting elephant and buffalo with Vaughan Fulton in the Caprivi Strip. We were far to the east, near the very end of the strip, where the Zambezi and Chobe Rivers meet.

This region is a vast swamp, and requires travel by water, along intermittent and reedy waterways, which occasionally flow through deeper pools, all of which are filled to the brim with hippos and crocs.

We were traveling in a flat-bottomed aluminum boat, equipped with a Yamaha outboard motor.

Vaughan steered our boat to the shore of one of the pools, where a couple of mokoros were nosed up onto the bank.

A mokoro is a sort of dugout canoe, about eight feet long, that one poles along from the stern. A mokoro is so narrow that to stand in one is difficult, and to sit down impossible.

Vaughan asked if I wanted to proceed deeper into the muddy and reedy swamps in one of these mokoros.

As I scanned the banks of the pool ahead of us, I saw at least a half dozen big crocs laying in the sun. Out in the deeper water, I could see a large pod of hippos, and hear them harrumphing their displeasure at our approach.

I asked Vaughan if he was serious, or just jerking me around.

Vaughan explained that his hunters often used mokoros, because they are very quiet, and do not spook the quarry.

I remarked that, if I were being dismembered by a hippo, or eaten by a croc, I would probably not be quiet.

Actually, I only said that later.

What I said at the time was, "No f&#king way!"

After Vaughan finished laughing his ass off, he started the Yamaha and moved our aluminum boat away from the bank.

The mokoros bobbed in our wake, as the crocs slid into the pool from its muddy banks, and the hippos continued to bellow and grunt.

Too many over the years, but on day one in 2015, I was hunting with Blake Wilhemi, and we'd never hunted together before. After hours of tracking a large eland herd, and you know what that is like, we finally came on the herd. Twenty or so cows, two bulls and they'd hooked up with a couple of giraffes by then. The females and one bull ran to our left. One bull ran to the right along with the giraffes. I was on the sticks and asked Blake which bull I should take. He said the one on the right. I made a good heart shot. He bucked and the herd milled. Then they took off across the ground where my bull would have run.

Blake asked me if I got a good shot. I said I got a great shot on one of the big orange ones. His eyes grew, and I'm not sure he knew I was joking. Blake rounded up the guys and they planned to try to intersect my bull beyond the chaos created by the herd and off they went.

But I knew he never made it that far. So I sat tight and went straight to where he was standing and found him within 25 yards. Just about the time I found him, Blake realized he'd lost his client and came back to find me. He found me and the eland.

We all got along great after that. Kinda funny. I admire the trackers and the magic they do, but no need to track what you know is dead right there.

We were hunting in Chete, Zimbabwe.

And lions have been evading us.

Tracked one all day to the next concession, came back absolutely knackered.

I shot a hippo, and we hung it in different places, hoping one would attract a lion.

We put make shift blinds - actually nothing more than some grass supported by cut off branches to shield us from the bait.

One morning we could hear a lion feeding, as we approached the bait.

The bait was on a tree down in a rocky valley between two mountains.

We could see the lion feeding - standing on his hind legs.

I fired a shot at him, he dropped and disappeared from our view.

But he continued growling for over a minute.

Roy asked how I felt about my shot.

I told him I was certain Ingot him in the chest.

We waited a bit, and moved around our location trying to see anything.

Nothing.

We decided to make a long detour and go to the other side.

We did.

We looked, and all we could see was a lot of blood, but no lion.

The area is very rocky.

Large rocks and hollows between them where a lion can hide.

We decided to go back to our original side, and then go down from there.

We got to the bait.

Lots of blood and the ground was messed up where he was struggling.

So a very slow search was started.

We kept close to each other, looking at every rock and hollow.

Me and Roy walking side by side.

Then someone said something from behind us.

As we turned, one of our trackers was Loki g down a hole, smiling.

Roy and me actually passed very close to it.

A rock was between us and him.

We all relaxed, and we’re very happy of getting a lion.

Kaboobi kaboobi at camp, where we all celebrated.

part 2

This story is about an Impala, but it did not start out that way. It started out as a bird hunt. Not just a casual bird hunt, but a two-country bird hunt, Guinea-Fowl mainly, with Sand Grouse on the menu as well.

The Helmeted Guinea, one of two species found in Southern Africa, is a very wary bird; a raucous bird to boot. I like to think of them as Africa's turkey .. when alarmed they will chatter and then run rather than fly. They share the Turkey's reddish wattles, but they are otherwise quite different in appearance, being slate gray and hump-backed, speckled with white dots over the entirety of their plumage. Their heads, both male and female, sport a single prominent hard curved horn; the older the bird, the more prominent the horn. And they are found in flocks, typically a half dozen to a dozen birds, but sometimes in mobs a hundred strong. When they have to fly, they are strong fliers, their flight is straight and deliberate; not slow, but nowhere near the speed of a duck. But their run is very agile and quick, making them hard to walk up. For this reason, guinea fowl hunts are social affairs, calling for as many guns as can be mustered, and tactics befitting a military exercise.

The Sand Grouse also is found in several species, each with it's own plumage, all preferring the drier regions of Southern Africa, but sharing one trait: they come to what little open water is to be found, typically a small water hole, at the same time every day. Some species drink in the morning, some in the evening. In these dry areas, in the winter months, water is sparse so they come from all corners of the compass, from miles around, in ones and two's, arriving within a window of 30 minutes each day, making this a short but busy shoot. In this regard, they are rather like ducks; except, in Namibia at least, they show up well after sunrise, and they come to drink and then depart, rather than puddle the day away. In Zimbabwe's Chirisa concession, they will drink at dusk, being a different species with their idiosyncracies. And unlike duck hunting, the skies are always blue and the weather balmy.

Thus it happened that I stood in the shade of an Acacia, at nine thirty in the morning, staring at a blue sky with my Meffert at the ready, a purple shell in each chamber. My companions were scattered around the water hole, with their own guns, a Westley here, an Elsie there, watching for the first birds. After a short wait, a shot ran out followed by a shout, a tracker ran into the bush, and the game was on!

I don't think Imman had any idea, when he crafted my gun, that it would ever see the African sun, long after he was resting where there is no sun. The time had come, now, and I cocked both hammers with one thumb as I raised the gun to my shoulder. Blam! Feathers, a thump in the sand, and a short retrieve. And so it went. A single here, an occasional double, right and left. The sandy soil around my feet was soon festooned with purple cartridge cases. About half way through our short window, I spotted a pair incoming. Remembering what I had read, I took the lead bird with the left barrel. The gun writhed in my grip and recoiled sharply. When I pulled the front trigger on the remaining bird I realized why: the trigger was dead, the gun had doubled. After that surprise, I took care to always start with the right barrel, as the left hammer would hold just fine. The combination of more modern nitro shells, a longer cartridge containing a full ounce of lead shot, and perhaps some wear to the bent was too much for the right lock. Under the sharp recoil of the nitro in the left chamber, the right sear would release, causing a second explosion that was barely distinguishable from the first. This was later rectified in camp; I carry a Swiss Army knife in my pack. The broad screwdriver blade allowed me to remove the single screw retaining the entire right lockplate and gave me access to the offending mechanism. The fine screwdriver was employed to remove the sear; and the file took care of the rounded sear nose which was the cause of the problem.

The Namibian Guineas gave us a good run for our money. But that is a story for another day. This story is about an Impala. Not a Namibian Impala, which are the favorite prey of the fleet-footed Cheetah, but the equally wary South African Impala whose main nemesis is the elusive Leopard of the relatively more settled country of the Bushveld, where cattle farms are numerous, and the rains more reliable, making crop farming possible. In particular, in the area around the small town of Dendron in what was formerly the Northern Transvaal, potatoes were grown in huge irrigate circular fields surrounded by thorny trees and brush.

TO BE CONTINUED

I once found a dead guy as I was just starting my early morning hike into an area looking for bighorns in CO. Funny enough...when I called 911 they wanted me to wait there for the cops, so my hunt that day kinda went south!

I hunted in very dry southern Namibia in 2007 on my first African venture. Although the oryx and springbock there were record book class, they explained to me that the kudus in that dry country tended to be on the smaller side.

We jumped what looked like a very good kudu bull crossing a dry river bed and I took the shot. Following it into the brush a short distance we found it down and unable to rise. When my guide saw it he was amazed at its size and exclaimed "That one will go Gold! We guarantee hunters they will NOT kill a Gold Medal kudu here."

"Well, in that case", I replied, "I want my money back, otherwise your guarantee is no good."

Roy and Walter have not had a very good hunting partnership.

Roy is a professional to the core, he does not like part time hunters who talk too much, take too long to shoot, they have a 50/50 chance of missing or wounding, and 5% chance of killing with their first shot.

So a sort of love hate relationship developed between these two.

Walter loves to hunt with Roy - he has no choice.

And Roy hates hunting with Walter - he has no choice either!

I love this

Driving along one afternoon, we saw a good size warthog.

We get Walter out of the truck - quite an event, trying to get him out quickly.

Off he goes with Roy and me behind.

The warthog ran into some hills close by.

Up the hills we went.

When we got there, no sign of the warthog.

Walter decided that was enough hunting for him, so he said to me to go ahead and fund and shoot the warty.

He was heading back to the truck.

A few minutes later we hear a shot from Walter’s direction.

We turn back and went to investigate.

Right there was Walter standing with his foot on a warthog!

He was proudly smiling, and said “I don’t need you any more Roy! I can do my own hunting”

Roy turns around and heads to the truck, saying “Fine! Carry your warthog back to camp turn!”

“STOP!STOP! Can you help me carry this to the truck?”

“No. Carry it yourself. To camp. You are not getting in MY truck! You said you don need me any more!”

Peace was reached, and we all went home together.

One time we stopped for something.

Roy’s truck has steel pipes running the length of the truck from the back of the cap.

I heard an argument, between Roy and Walter.

This requires attention, as it always ends up being funny.

Apparently the argument was to time Walter, how long it takes him to get off the truck when Roy asks him.

Walter was on the back, sitting.

Roy calls “Walter! Get off the truck! There is a zebra there!”

Walter jumps up, tries to go over the pipes on the back of the truck, somehow slips on the way down, and lands on his head!

Takes him 10 minutes to recover.

It took us even longer to recover our breaths!

We were hunting California A zone deer season and on an early morning hunt the biggest wild boar I have ever seen was trotting towards us on a cattle trail. Friend of mine took a shot and the boar rolled down the hill. Thinking the boar was done, my friend walked down towards him. About a minute later we heard my friend yell, OH Shit, and he comes running back up the hill and the boar was running after him and was gaining. At the top of the hill the boar stopped and we got another shot in him and the boar just grunted and knashed his tusks together. My dad put a 7mm weatherby into the boars neck at about 20 yards and this boar pumped out blood about 6 ft into the ground and expired shortly after. My friends first shot was a gut shot and just pissed off the boar. the mounted head is still above his desk at work. One bottom tusks measured at 3 1/4" and the other just under 4". Still the largest boar I have seen in the bush and that was 17 years ago.

We were driving along a two track in the southern Selous.

I was in the back, with my PH, the great Luís Pedro de Sá e Mello, my wife and the trackers.

One of the trackers touched Pedro's shoulder, pointed off to the right, and softly said, "Punda."

Pedro tapped on the hood of the cab, our driver stopped the Toyota, and Pedro and I jumped out.

We stalked a respectable distance away, he set up the sticks, and I touched off an easy 150 yard shot with my .375.

At the shot, the zebra bolted off to the left, and dirt, dust and leaves burst off the ground, in all directions, about 25 yards to the right of where the zebra had been standing.

Pedro looked at me with astonishment on his face. "You missed," he said. "By 10 meters! How did you manage to miss by 10 meters?!"

I said, "No way! That was a good shot!"

We walked up toward where the zebra had been standing. I was checking the brush and trees, since I was sure my shot had been deflected.

About 120 yards out, I found a mopane tree with a three-inch trunk, and a fresh .375 caliber hole right through the middle of it.

I was vindicated!

I told Pedro, "See, I didn't miss! The bullet hit this tree and ricocheted! Hah! What do you say now, Pedro!"

He smiled and said with utter certainty, "Mike, unless you are trying to kill mopane trees, you missed."

To follow up on Russ's and Michael's posts, I've only intentionally hunted guineas once. We were in the Selous and had some car issues, so the only choice was sit in camp until the car was repaired or hunt on foot along the Ruaha. We chose the latter. We were easing along through rather thick riverine stuff and jumped a flock of guineas. They ran. I passed my .416 to the tracker and traded it for the camp shotgun. Took off after the guineas trying to make them fly. I was a lot younger and more foolish then and outran the trackers and the PH trying to make the guineas fly. They refused. We broke into a little vlei and a cow elephant and small calf were standing in the middle of it. I froze. She froze. And we looked at each other for a bit. I was holding a shotgun full of bird shot feeling rather insecure at the moment.

I looked over my shoulder to determine where my trackers and .416 were and they were no where in sight. Fortunately, the cow tucked her trunk under the calf's tail and they headed in another direction. We went back to camp and waited for the car to be repaired while I put a serious dent in a bottle of scotch.

I can sympathize with Michael as this year after a long tracking job on a roan, I finally got a shot. Shortly after the shot, after a seemingly long time, a small tree slowly fell. The roan was none the worse for wear and that was officially a miss. But I killed the hell out of that tree.

This is all the truth

I’d tell you I’m embellishing, but I’m not.

We’d been hunting for what felt like an eternity. My legs were raging…my face was burning with icey winds and single digit humidity. My tracker was carrying a loaned ’06 Mauser that not seconds ago was on my shoulder…a rifle I’d been carrying at least two ditches or ravines earlier. A rifle that was my outfitters childhood rifle. At 50 years old and not that far off a successful goat hunt, my lazy ass was hurting and my lungs were heaving in whatever the altitude was. The desolate martian landscape before me…and behind me…and, well, everywhere around me…glowed red and gold like the deserts of Southern California.

The truth is that it was more like 2 hours of hiking. In Chukkar country.

Somewhere ahead of me, my one-eyed tracker froze. Craig, my PH, gently seized and shrank. My boots slid inches sideways down the slope, sending a scatter of red sand and pebbles down the 50 degree slope. Ahead, something danced in the mirage.

What, either of them saw, I had no idea.

They motioned low, an angle pointed at, the arthritis in my right knee screaming red rage as we hobbled crouched and slow as we could, penguin walking alongside an edge, a small berm of some kind…above us there was an animal worthy of a hunt. We sank to all fours, hunkered up against the edge, a hard wall to our left shoulders, the cold winter wind to our right, and somewhere high above us floating like Icarus, the Sun. One-Eye signaled, my PH advanced, signaling me with him. One-Eye looked every bit like a professional baseball catcher, the ball was the rifle, the glove was my hand…a rifle somehow appeared in my hand and I never saw the pitcher.

Above us were several critters dancing in the sun. A matriarch…a lovely gal…a young goat…Klipstein. An Old Matriarch.

We shrank as low as we could go, about 200 yards away. Maybe a little less. We sat back. We had time. They weren’t spooked…they weren’t, well, anything but curious. They saw us. The Wind was with us but certainly not the eyes. I held the rifle…One-Eye had…well, one eye just over the edge looking through a set of broken binoculars that actually had one tube that worked, following the animals above. Craig leaned back…

“We have time. Catch your breath. Take it easy. Look at the terrain, where can you get a shot?”

I maneuvered ahead, taking my time. My right foot slid and pebbles went down the mountain. I froze…and inched forward. Craig had the rifle, kind of shoved it forward towards me. I pulled it along, adding to its character. I leaned into the shelf we were on, gently pulled the rifle up…I had nothing. The Klippy was standing on a large rock, watching. I twisted, I rotated, motioned for the shooting sticks, got set up, and my back let go in seconds. I couldn’t get stable for a shot.

…the Klippy yawned. He laid down on the large rock above us.

Craig, my PH, just stared at me. Like, “seriously”?

I kept fidgeting. I tried. I really tried. Somewhere in the midst of all this we realized weren’t exactly whispering anymore. I stood up in plain view, my back screaming in agony.

The Klippy just sat there on his rock, watching us in rapt curiosity.

Somewhere, somehow, I managed to get “almost” in position. It was close but I couldn’t support the rifle right. The slope was too steep…my body kept moving. I looked at Craig - give me the other set of sticks. He alway carried a set of smaller folding bi-pod like cross sticks. I crossed them up and shoved them just in front of the trigger guard. Right then my sight picture locked down, dead stable. I took up the first length of the two-stage trigger

And sent the payload inches over the back of the Klippy.

One-Eye sighed. Craig the PH said, peering through his binoculars, “reload, shoot again”.

And so I did. The second shot caught the Klippy slightly back, double lunging it. I watched it tumble down the hill as the other male and female that were with the Patriarch looked on in some form of disbelief.

The wind whipped up, dust swirled. We looked at each other and shook our heads.

Sometimes Diana Smiles.



Thing is, I really wanted to tell you guys about the Vaal we were really after.

Roy Vincent, my long suffering friend, was not convinced why I hunt with what he called “minimum calibers”.

He used a 460 Weatherby Magnum, and then built himself a 585 Nyati!

Out looking for impala in Westwood.

Saw a nice buck about 200 yards away.

He puts the shooting sticks up, and I fire a shot at it.

It dropped in its tracks.

I was using a 270 Ackley Dwight Scott built for me, using 130 grain Barnes X bullets.

We get to the impala.

Roy looks at it, then picks a stick and starts to poke the bullet hole.

The bullet went into his neck, on the side.

Doing hardly any damage.

Never touched a bone.

But the impala was DEAD!

Roy “he shouldn’t have died!”

“What do you mean he shouldn’t have died! He IS dead!”

“You almost missed him. He shouldn’t have died!”

“But he is dead. I wanted to preserve the meat!”

“No you didn’t. You almost missed him!”

“But I did NOT! And here we have a nice impala for a BBQ!”

“He shouldn’t have died!”

“Roy, they say a miss by an inch or by a mile, still a miss. A hit anywhere that kills is a perfect hit! I got him in the heart!”

“The heart is not THERE!” He pokes the bullet hole again.

“Where do you think the blood came from? Straight from the heart! I hit him in the heart. Indirectly!”

He was not convinced!

I was asleep in a hyena blind with 505Gibbs when he woke me and asked if a hyena had a tail? Having been rudely awoken and my mind fuzzy I could not answer his query right away. In front of us was definitely not a hyena but looked more like a village dog with a long slender tail chewing on a bone. The animal had striking facial markings similar to that of a civet cat but otherwise bore no resemblance to the species. Actually, it looked like the extinct Tasmanian Wolf. Brad asked if he should shoot it and I did one of those yes no yes no replies. Once I had wiped the sleep from my eyes I realized it indeed to be an oversized civet with mange. It has lost all fur but still retained shadows of its markings. A most unusual apparition.

I went back to sleep.

quote:

Roy Vincent, my long suffering friend, was not convinced why I hunt with what he called “minimum calibers”.

He used a 460 Weatherby Magnum, and then built himself a 585 Nyati!

Out looking for impala in Westwood.

Saw a nice buck about 200 yards away.

He puts the shooting sticks up, and I fire a shot at it.

It dropped in its tracks.

I was using a 270 Ackley Dwight Scott built for me, using 130 grain Barnes X bullets.

We get to the impala.

Roy looks at it, then picks a stick and starts to poke the bullet hole.

The bullet went into his neck, on the side.

Doing hardly any damage.

Never touched a bone.

But the impala was DEAD!

Roy “he shouldn’t have died!”

“What do you mean he shouldn’t have died! He IS dead!”

“You almost missed him. He shouldn’t have died!”

“But he is dead. I wanted to preserve the meat!”

“No you didn’t. You almost missed him!”

“But I did NOT! And here we have a nice impala for a BBQ!”

“He shouldn’t have died!”

“Roy, they say a miss by an inch or by a mile, still a miss. A hit anywhere that kills is a perfect hit! I got him in the heart!”

“The heart is not THERE!” He pokes the bullet hole again.

“Where do you think the blood came from? Straight from the heart! I hit him in the heart. Indirectly!”

He was not convinced!

Is Roy a distant relative of Walter's? They both seem to employ the same logic.

One afternoon we decided to go shoot birds.

All of us.

I had a Browning B2000 semi automatic.

I used it first, and shot a few francolines.

Then it was Walter’s turn.

He did not do as well as me, so Roy wanted to help him.

He got his shooting sticks, and accompanied Walter.

We stopped whatever we were doing, and paid attention to them.

As anytime these two are together something very funny is bound to happen.

Francolines were everywhere, so Roy put us the shooting sticks, saying to Walter “here, use these. They help you stop missing”

Walter put the shotgun on the sticks, before Roy could move, and fired 5 shots in quick succession, close to Roy’s ears!

“F%#$&k! You stupid bloody German have ruined my HEARING! I am going to get you for this!”

I fell down laughing, as my feet couldn’t carry me!

On the drive back to camp, I was riding in front with Roy.

I thought I would add to his misery, so I pretended to talk to him while whispering!

He kept saying “I cannot hear a BLOODY thing! I am going to put my 460 Weatherby by his bloody ears and blow HIS eardrums.

It kept getting worse between these two, and we all try to help this development

We were hunting in the rain looking for buffalo in Zim and took shelter under some big trees.

Our PH said it reminded him about a night hunt following problem elephants destroying corn ( mealie ) fields. Later, Exhausted they lay down under a hut on stilts with nearby big woven baskets for corn storage also on stilts thinking the elephants may comeback. The stilts were a protection from elephants.

The client fell asleep on his back with his mouth wide open snoring away, to be awoken by choking on “water” from above. Gasping he woke the the PH , who was pretending to be asleep. The PH, realizing what had happened, was silently struggling to control his laughter.

He complained to the PH “ I m covered in water” to which the PH said “ must be a heavy African cloud burst” .

He never had the heart to tell the client somebody peed out of the hut above him and got a direct hit!

Around mid-morning, we arrived in camp in South Africa's bushveld with my drilling, a Thompson Center Contender with a shoulder stock and a ten inch 45 Long Colt barrel, my hunting gear, and a good supply of ammunition for both. Camp was a large sprawling affair comprising multiple stone structures with thatched roofs. It was actually too grand to be called a camp. It was a lodge, to use the local vernacular. There was a large dining area with a long bar in one building, the bar having its own thatched roof under the main roof; and the walls adorned with various hunting trophies, presumably from the vicinity.

I say we because our guide had arranged for me to travel from Johannesburg's Oliver Tambo airport, that I knew as Jan Smuts, to the hunting area with another hunter and his son. Jan had become politically incorrect so the government of the "New South Africa", not to be confused with the South Africa that they had liberated from the Boers, who in turn had liberated it from the English, had renamed the airport after a leading figure in the revolution who was more to their liking. Well in fact, Jan was always politically incorrect, in his time he was regarded as a liberal by his fellow revolutionaries, the Boer nation of South Africa. For Jan, or "Slim Jannie" (clever Jannie) as he was called, was a very moderate figure in the political world at the time. But I digress. The hunter was a sheriff in a rural town in Kwazulu-Natal, which used to be just Natal, but that too was politically incorrect in later times so a compromise was reached between the colonial name and the name of the tribe that historically occupied the northern reaches of the former colony, the Zulu Nation. A sheriff in South Africa is not equivalent to a sheriff in America, for the former has not much to do with law enforcement at all, rather he is an agent of the court who sees to it that judgements are enforced, more like a debt collector than an American sheriff. I gathered this from several cellphone conversations he conducted while en-route. The son was freshly out of high school, a strapping lad with the unusual name "Lemmer". He was polite as all children of Afrikaner upbringing are polite. They speak when spoken to, and refer to their elders as "Oom" meaning uncle. So I became an honorary uncle to Lemmer, which would make me the sheriff's brother, although the term does not convey that additional honor.

Our bird hunt was not scheduled to start until the following day, so I was surprised to find a half dozen local hunters already there. We were introduced. Some were English speakers, including our guide. Some were Afrikaners, descended from the Boers that effectively overthrew the English back when the country was still separated into colonies and Republics. Each group spoke both languages, with appropriate ease.

The Contender was intended for a special purpose: dispatching marauding baboons from their roost tree at night. Thus it was equipped with a sound moderator that a gunsmith in Johannesburg had built and fitted to the barrel. All of this was perfectly legal in South Africa, but highly illegal in the USA. For that reason, the silencer remains in South Africa to this day, seeing only occasional use, and the ten inch barrel does not get mounted on the Contender frame until we are in the African bush. In fact we had no plans to hunt baboons on this trip. However, we did put the Contender to use at night on another type of marauder, more on that later.

After we got settled in, our guide invited those of us that were so inclined to head out for a warm-up hunt. We drove a short distance to another patch of bush in three separate vehicles, got our guns out and our gear on, and awaited instructions. Our guide wore a bird vest, inscribed on the back "Don't Shoot the Guide" in black marker pen. The reason for this surprising inscription became apparent as we assembled, guns broken, to get our marching orders. I don't remember exactly how many of us there were at this point, around a half dozen perhaps, plus the guide. In this type of hunt, it was not uncommon, in fact it was deliberate strategy in many situations, for a hunter to shoot in the direction of another hunter! So there was a strict rule, called the "blue sky" rule, that you were not to shoot at a bird unless you could see blue sky all around it. Guineas are not usually high flying birds, at least not in this flattish country, where they tend to fly just above the treetops, which was not very high as this was bush more than forest and the trees were on the short side. Another rule was explained to us: guns were to be carried at port arms, the muzzles pointing skywards, at all times. Carrying a gun with the muzzles pointed at the ground, normally considered safe, was not permitted here. For the hunter would then, in raising the gun to his shoulder, at some time in this motion necessarily be pointing the gun at hunter level, probably with the safety off and the trigger finger on or near the trigger.

Now the various strategies were explained. First, a flock of birds would be located, usually by driving the farm roads. Guineas are large birds that do not attempt to conceal themselves. When feeding, they scratch around in the dirt like a flock of chickens. Once birds were located, we would dismount and the guide would inform us of the strategy for the hunt. The object was to cut off the birds' escape route through a "bull's horns" maneuver; or a "Natal surround", if there were enough guns in the group; or simply by placing hunters on both sides of the birds and then advancing toward one another in a sort of pincer movement. All of this required considerable coordination necessitating radio communication between the parties. To this end, each subgroup of hunters had an appointed lead hunter who was issued a hand- held FM radio. The leader would sometimes "pull a line", meaning lead a group of hunters through the bush in a certain direction in single file, dropping a hunter every fifty yards or so. When all the hunters were in place, a prearranged signal would be given and then the game was on!

Sometimes these plans worked, but in many cases the birds, who seemed to be wise to these tricks, escaped. Our first attempt ended with an escape and no shots fired. Our second attempt paid off: after some quick maneuvering, we successfully surrounded a small flock of birds, trapping them in a fairly open area with guns positioned on all sides. We began to advance tightening the noose. The birds, sensing that they were trapped, initially hunkered down in the knee-high grass and could no longer be seen. Then their nerves started to break, and they flushed in twos and threes, flying up and out of the circle. Of course in doing so, they had to fly over the line. The first two headed directly toward me. For a moment, everything seemed frozen in time. The birds, the blue sky, the barrels of my gun. I felt some pressure, as the group's efforts now rested on my shooting. Blam, a bird folded and plummeted toward the ground; my focus shifted to the second bird even as the first bird was still falling, kablam and instantly the bird stopped in mid-air, no longer flying, now falling as well. Thud, then thud. I had done my bit. Now more birds were breaking, blam blam kablam from another quarter. And then it was over, with a few birds flying off into the brushy distance.

We gathered the dead birds and regrouped with guns broken, talking fast over each other in our excitement. "Did you see that?" "Good shot" and "Well done!"

And so it went for the rest of the weekend. Occasionally we would flush Francolin as well. If this happened during a maneuver, we were under strict instructions not to shoot, as this would blow the stalk. But quite often, Francolin were in with the guineas and we would enjoy the added sport as these are fast-flying birds that could accelerate vertically before leveling out, sometimes with the wind, calling for much longer leads and resulting in fewer hits. On one occasion, the guineas escaped but I observed a francolin flush and then land not too far in front of me in an overgrown crop circle. Lemmer emerged from the line of brush having given up on the guineas. Perhaps he had flushed the Francolin. I directed him toward where the bird had landed. The bird flushed again, flying across my field of view from left to right, and in a very satisfactory manner I folded it with the right barrel of the Meffert. That image is still clear in my mind, all these years later.

All too soon, it was Sunday and after a morning shoot, the parties began packing up their vehicles and heading back to the their families and jobs. I, however, had other plans: I would spend the week in the local "dorp" (town) staying in the local "gastehuis" (guest house) from where I planned to do some day hunts on a farm in the area. The gentleman who had arranged the bird hunting was a school teacher in town, knew all the local farmers, and lined me up with a place to hunt until the following weekend, when the bird hunting would resume, this time with a different group of hunters.

I once stalked a Duggaboy in the Mkundi river in Mbarangandu, southern Tanzania.

We were about 40 yards from him with a good wind when all changed. The breeze just died for a couple of seconds, and then changed direction straight to the Buff. The ol boy tossed his head back, took a deep sniff of my morning juices and came straight at us! I put the first round of 500gr. good news out of .470NE in the center of his chest, the second Nosler solid between his eyes. The sand showered over us as his blood splattered nose came to rest on my boot.....covering my shin and $400.00 courteny's with blood......

It is all bullshit of course but why let the truth get in the way of good story.....
He was 40 yards away, but the scoped 416 Rigby made short work of him as he tried to run AWAY from us

The first African hunting safari I ever booked was a 21-day, full bag, Tanzanian extravaganza in the Selous Game Reserve. Back in the day, when a full bag was a real, and even likely, possibility.

My agent and my PH, both, asked me, at different times, why I was starting with the peak African experience, instead of working my way up, gradually, as most hunters do?

I told them both, separately, in quiet moments, and in roughly the same terms, that "Tomorrow is promised to no man," and that "I want to experience the pinnacle of African hunting, before I'm dead and gone."

They both answered, in roughly the same terms, "Mike, are you okay? You're not sick, are you?"

quote:

Originally posted by Michael Robinson:
The first African hunting safari I ever booked was a 21-day, full bag, Tanzanian extravaganza in the Selous Game Reserve. Back in the day, when a full bag was a real, and even likely, possibility.

My agent and my PH, both, asked me, at different times, why I was starting with the peak African experience, instead of working my way up, gradually, as most hunters do?

I told them both, separately, in quiet moments, and in roughly the same terms, that "Tomorrow is promised to no man," and that "I want to experience the pinnacle of African hunting, before I'm dead and gone."

They both answered, in roughly the same terms, "Mike, are you okay? You're not sick, are you?"

I did the same thing.

My PH kept asking what animals I preferred.

I kept saying anything on quota.

Some of us never learn.

I still say the same thing.

I kept putting off my first trip to Africa -- until I could afford it; until I had enough time, etc.
Always an excuse. Then one of my best friends just dropped dead at age 44 in 2004. That changed the calculus for me. Go while you can. You can't spend it when you're dead.

I could not agree more.

We have a friend who was recently diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer.

When we visited her shortly afterwards, my wife asked her how this could have happened.

She said, "It's like a car accident. It just happens.” All of a sudden.

True words. Tempus fugit, and before too long, it's all run away.

The good old days are right now.

My guide, Mark Sullivan, and I had arrived in camp. Evening supper consisted of guinea and zebra. I had never eaten guinea and liked it so well I didn't eat any zebra. Mark ate zebra and it must have been tainted as he was sick the next day. Despite being sick he offered to take me out for buff, but I didn't want to impose on such a wonderful guy. So I told him to stay in bed and get well. I'd walk around a bit. I left camp not expecting to see anything only had my .25ACP in my pocket. I guess for snakes. Not an animal in sight. All of a sudden out of the grass a huge buff stands up and came charging my direction. I think Mark had played with it and had him riled up. Mark is very brave and likes to do things like that. He takes chances no other will take. I was lucky, there was a single tree near by, I think a tihsllub tree. I jumped up and grabbed a limb and was in the tree and the buff was pawing the ground and ramming the tree. I was safe or so I thought, then I saw there was a large cheetah in the tree eyeing me. I didn't know what to do. Then I figured it out. Since I only had one bullet and that little .25ACP, I'd shoot the wildcat between the eyes and shoot the bull with you guys here on the site, since I've never been to Africa. I included Mark Sullivan to be sure to get a response from Saeed.

At first light on the Monday, a driver showed up at the guest house to fetch me as I had no vehicle. I learned that this man was to be my guide for the week. I put the sandwiches that my host, a rather dishevelled woman in her fifties, had made for me in my fanny pack, along with a half dozen rounds of ammunition and two water bottles, grabbed my gun, and expectantly climbed up into the passenger seat of the Land Cruiser. We drove a short distance to the farm I was to hunt where I met the landowner. Expecting a grizzled old farmer, I was surprised to see he was in his early twenties at most, but not surprised to learn his name was van der Merwe. I forget his first name but van der Merwe is a very common name in rural parts of South Africa. We exchanged pleasantries in Afrikaans. He eyed my drilling an inquired about it. I showed him the weapon, with its Kahles now installed in the claw mounts. With a skeptical look on his face, he inquired as to the caliber of the rifle barrel. "Agt millimeter maal sewe en fyftig" (eight by fifty seven) I replied, expecting him to recognize this well-known Mauser round. He clearly did not. Perhaps he was too young to relate to the famous Mauser company that supplied his forebears with weapons that they put to good use against the "Rooinekke" (Rednecks), as they called the British troops whom they raided to good effect in the Boer War. But then those Mausers were all 7x57s, so his ignorance was understandable. I dug a round out of my fanny pack and explained that it shot a 196 grain bullet at around 2400 fps, not much different than a 30-06. He seemed to recognize that round as his eyes lit up and he shifted his attention to my hunting plans. "Rooibok" (which literally means red buck, but refers to the Impala common to that part of the world) I said. He nodded and wished me luck.

It was early spring and the acacia trees were starting to break out in white blossoms. The weather was pleasant enough as we set out on foot. We had not gone very far when my guide's radio beeped. His boss, young van der Merwe, came on. He asked if I wanted to shoot a Wildebeest. He explained that he had encountered what appeared to be a wounded wildebeest and it needed to be dispatched. I was not planning on shooting a wounded anything, but agreed to take care of the problem in the spirit of things. He gave my guide directions which brought us to the scene. A single Wildebeest was standing at a water hole. I got down on my hands and knees and approached in the low brush, the Meffert slung across my chest. When I got to the edge of the vegetation, about sixty yards from the black bovine, I assumed a sitting position behind a bush and scooted to one side so I could get a clear shot. The Wildebeest, an ungainly looking animal about the size of a smallish Angus cow and almost as black but with a blueish sheen to it as its full name (Blue Wildebeest, as opposed to its even more ungainly cousin the Black Wildebeest) attests, is notoriously tough and hard to kill. So much so that many landowners insist that hunters use a 375 "Ouch & Ouch", as the H&H (Holland and Holland) cartridge is colloquially known in these parts. I can personally attest to that, having spent the better part of a day unsuccessfully tracking down one that I once shot with that same 375 caliber, supposedly the right medicine for the quarry. These thoughts were going through my mind as I placed the heavy post reticle on the shoulder of the beast as it stood broadside with head down, not too long for this world, breathed, set the weapon to fire the rifle barrel, and pressed the front trigger. At the report, he went down in the dust, kicked and rolled, and was still.

Our plans to hunt impala that day were now interrupted as we loaded the wildebeest into the back of the Land Cruiser, not an easy thing to do but made a little easier with the help of the winch mounted on the brush bar and two pulleys on the headache rack above the cab, and hauled it off to the appointed place to be deboweled, skinned and butchered by the same gent that was my guide, a black man of small stature assisted by another who could have been his brother (and for all I knew, may well have been). This took most of the morning so I retired to a place out of sight where I could eat my sandwich. The temperature was now well into the 80s.

To be continued.

Russ,

We've been waiting four days ...

quote:

Originally posted by lavaca:
I kept putting off my first trip to Africa -- until I could afford it; until I had enough time, etc.
Always an excuse. Then one of my best friends just dropped dead at age 44 in 2004. That changed the calculus for me. Go while you can. You can't spend it when you're dead.

Thank you for posting that. I had a very similar experience. My best friend, who I thought was in better health than any of us, passed away suddenly on a deer hunt in Wyoming at age 39. A few months later, me and my wife went to Africa on a 17 day hunt. I have been two other times as well.

You never know….

Later that afternoon we resumed our quest on foot, I periodically lifting my hat to wipe the sweat from my brow. My guide did not seem to sweat despite wearing a dark green coverall.

The bush in these parts is quite thick as the soil is good and there is sufficient rainfall to grow crops, making hunting challenging. And it's thorny. Anyone who has hunted the Bushveld region of Southern Africa will tell you that there are as many types of thorn as there are types of tree. Some are long and straight, some are short and hooked. Some have a bit of both. So you have to watch out for thorns while at the same time keeping an eye out for the flash of an ear or the flicker of a tail through the tiny openings where you can see anything at all. Impala on the other hand seem impervious to thorns and have keener eyesight; and their habit of moving in groups makes it almost impossible to approach unseen on foot. In the hot part of the day, the Impala will lay down under a shady tree screened by grass and small bushes. I swear they deliberately face different directions so there is no blind spot. A pair of eyes will spot you no matter how stealthy you are, due to the simple geometry of the situation: your six foot stature places most of your body in plain view; your white face shines like a beacon even if shaded by a good hat; and you are in motion while the impala are not.

My guide, blessed with superior bush skills, dark skin, acute eyesight, and a lower profile was better equipped for this game so he led the way. At least the wind was steady, neutralizing the Impala's other form of radar. But our only reward on the occasions when we did approach within range was a snort, flashes of tails, and a clatter of hooves .

To cut a long story short, my guide delivered me back to my lodgings that evening weary, dusty and scratched up, with nothing further to show for our efforts. The dishevelled lady brought me a plate of dinner which I consumed in my room watching a small TV that offered nothing memorable by way of programming, so after dinner I cleaned my weapon, checked the effectiveness of my repair to the right hammer, noting that the lockup of the action seemed a little looser than it was at the outset. I thought nothing of it, took a shower and called it a day.

I was up early the next morning for breakfast of eggs, fatty boerewors (the ubiquitous spiced lamb and beef sausage of the region) and 'pap" (a form of grits but without the gritty part), served up by my host in her pajamas and dressing gown. This greasy platter called for some strong coffee which was readily produced along with my sandwiches for the day and it did cut the grease.

I finished breakfast ahead of schedule and waited outside for my guide who arrived in due course. He informed me that we were headed to a different farm owned by the same van der Merwe, who seemed to be a man of greater means than his years would suggest. En-route we encountered van and another young man driving towards us along a dirt road and pulled over to converse. He was talkative and I could see why: loaded in the back of his "bakkie" (pickup truck) were not one but two impressive kudu bulls. He explained that he had shot one with his "ouch and ouch" using "solids"; and not ten minutes later his companion had shot a second kudu bull which appeared to be a twin of the first. So they were headed back to the first farm to butcher the two bulls. For a moment I thought that perhaps my hunt was to be interrupted yet again but that did not appear to be the plan today so we proceeded.

Arriving at the second farm, we observed three impala feeding out in a large open area that had once been cultivated. I guessed the range to be about three hundred yards, as they were closer to the far side of the opening than to us. The bush was starting to come back here and there but the opening was largely devoid of the thick stuff that had frustrated us the prior day. I grabbed my binoculars and took a closer look. All three were males but none was mature. One of the three was a bit bigger than his companions and since this was not a trophy hunt, and the prospect of getting a shot seemed good, I gave my guide a thumbs up. He indicated we should circle around the far side of the opening so we proceeded along the two-track which skirted the field, losing sight of the quarry. We then dismounted and my guide indicated the direction. I rummaged around in my fanny pack and located a round, loaded my gun, and followed him into the bush.

It seemed that this area was subject to seasonal flooding, as there were large earth walls alongside the road. We clambered over the wall between us and where we estimated the impala would be, and cautiously approached through a belt of the usual brush, coming to a point where the brush petered out. I spotted the impala still grazing in the opening, now about 150 yards distant. There was a barbed wire fence about twenty yards in front of me. I indicated to my guide to stay put while I moved forward on my hands and knees. Coming to the fence, I removed my fanny pack and laid it on the ground in front of me, to use as a rest. The grass was short so I had a clear shot.

to be continued.

And so it came to this: on a bright late winter's day around the turn of the twenty first century AD in the New South Africa, a white man, now past his prime, lay on his belly in the African soil, a man whose forebears came from the North of England and pre-soviet Germany, and before that from Scandinavia, where blue eyes are common but bright days are not; but whose fiber was of Africa, the Calcium in his bones was African Calcium from African milk and African fish; the Carbon in his flesh was African carbon, from African beef and African grains and fruits, ultimately from African soil; the Oxygen and Hydrogen in his cells was African, from African air and water; yet this man's African-ness was not recognized by his own government, for he was classified as a "European" and glad of it. In his hands he held a weapon with three barrels made of Krupp steel and German Walnut by a European, one Immanuel, a "hofbuchsenmacher" whose roots could, in theory, be traced back to Africa's Rift Valley, before humankind had figured out how to take iron ore and carbon and smelt them into steel; and in the chamber of the weapon, a single round of ammunition made by Sellier and Bellot in the Czech Republic, using copper probably from Russia, Lead and Iron from Sweden, and nitrocellulose from Germany, shipped first to the United States of America by sea and from there to Africa by air; and behind this man, crouching the brush, watching, a fellow African, a black man whose forebears migrated down to this part of Africa from the same Rift Valley seeking fresh grazing for their Nguni cattle, who was of the Venda peoples that made this part of Africa their home, not in living memory, but certainly in recorded history. And an Impala ram, grazing African grass and oblivious to the complexities of the situation, with his two brothers, now broadside.

At the shot, the Impala dropped where he stood and his companions took off as fast as their legs could carry them. This was not unexpected as a 150 yard shot with a telescopic sight and a steady rest is about as straightforward a shot as one can make. I had once taken a silver medal in 200 meter rapid fire competition with an FN-FAL service rifle, and had shot a perfect score at 500 meters with the same rifle. So I was not surprised by events. My guide approached as I stood up. I noticed he was still holding his shooting sticks, that had proved unnecessary in the event, and he was smiling. He was perhaps not as sure of the outcome as I, and he seemed relieved. We shook hands in the African way, alternately grasping each other's fingers and thumbs. I handed the Meffert to him while I crossed the fence and he did the same. Out of habit I dug another round out of my pack and reloaded. We approached our quarry, now laying very still, feeling good about the world.

We had gone about fifty yards when the Impala ram stood up. He was a bit shaky at first. I said "sticks" and my guide dutifully planted them in the sand. As I was readying my rifle, the Impala started to move away presenting only his rump. At each step, he became more steady. I put the heavy post reticle on his moving tail, waiting for a better angle. Then to my surprise, my guide grabbed the sticks and stated that we needed to get closer! At this, the Impala broke into a run and soon disappeared into the bush on the far side of the opening, very close to where we had stopped the vehicle earlier that day, when we first spotted them.

To be continued.

Great story Russ! Deja vue for me! Had a somewhat similar experience years ago in Zimbabwe! However, in my case we were all standing around the ram as he lay there, discussing the shot, when he suddenly jumped up and ran off-never to be seen again! Carry on with your story! Loving it!

Beautifully written, Russ Gould, particularly your first sentence.

Everything, everywhere, especially in southern Africa, is entangled.

Well done, both in the event and in the telling of it. More, please!

Indeed some very fine prose there.

There was blood, a pool of it where my Impala had lain a minute ago. But none where his hoofprints in the soil marked his escape. I followed my guide as he tracked, to the far side of the clearing and then into the brush. He found a drop here, a drop there, but not the amount one would expect from a mortal wound. We lost the trail where the ground was hard and then found it again. And then lost it and could not be sure now which spoor was which.

We decided to follow the same track we had driven that morning, back in the direction of the parked Cruiser which was about a half mile away. We were not tracking now, just walking, but still looking at the ground in the hopes of finding a drop or some sign, with that sinking feeling that precedes defeat. As we came around the far end of the opening, we could see the tailgate of the vehicle just off the road where we had left it. But as that vista opened up, we could see an Impala in the open area now to our left. Then another. Now three. Grazing nonchalantly as if nothing had transpired that morning.

A short detour brought me to a vantage point on top of the same earth wall we had clambered over less than an hour ago. My guide squatted next to me. I studied the rams through my Minoltas, and to my astonishment even under eight times magnification could see no wound on any of them. They were not that different in size and now my mind was brewing up a cloud of doubt. Then I saw a mark on one of the rams, on his shoulder. I adjusted the focus so that I could be sure. Was it a bullet wound? Not sure. But it had to be. I resolved to find out and brought the weapon to bear on the marked ram. The distance was short, as these things go, around a hundred yards. So I held dead on the shoulder, in line with the front leg, about one third of the way up the chest. For that is the center of the vitals, about the size of a cantaloupe.

At the second shot of the day, the ram flinched. But there was no thud. All three of them stood their ground, as if to say "Is that the best you can do?". I opened the gun to extract the spent cartridge and reached for another round. I rummaged about in my pack, finding sandwiches, a plastic bag containing a fire starter, compass, a bottle of tiny iodine tablets, and some cord, a small zipper bag with first aid items, some wool gloves, all familiar items, but no cartridge. I did some rapid mental math .. the wildebeest, the first shot, the miss, I thought I had at least one more cartridge. I checked my pockets as one of the rams, not the one I had now apparently missed cleanly, turned about as if to make a run for it.

Then I saw it. I did not need my Minoltas, I could see it with my bare eyes: a wound the size of an apple on his off shoulder, and just as red. It was right where I would expect it to be, perhaps a little higher than the ideal location. I had aimed about half way up the body since the distance was around one fifty, I thought, and the gun was sighted at one hundred.

I checked my pack again and the panic subsided in my chest as I found one more round. I loaded for the third time that day, then taking extra care I squeezed off my last round. Yes!. My ram staggered and then went down, while the others decided that they had had enough and made for the hills.

My guide got up to approach but I grabbed his leg and pulled him back. The bowhunter in me decided it would be better to let the animal bleed out where he lay rather than jumping him. At that point, my guide informed me that he was not going to track this animal again and went back to the vehicle. I stayed put watching the scene before me. The Impala was down, laying prone behind some small bushes. I could see his back and rump but not his head, that was concealed from view. He did not appear to be moving.

The twice-shot Impala now lifted his head and I could see it clearly. I could see the knurling on his horns, his eyeball, his eyelashes, every detail of his head. It was as if my vision was more acute than normal. The hollow sensation rose again from my gut into my chest and then tightened around my throat. I was out of ammunition for sure, and this Impala now looked like he was going to get up again. I was transfixed. My guide had left but I could hear him talking in Afrikaans on the radio in the distance.

My nemesis then laid his head back down, behind the small bush. An idea took form in the recesses of my mind, becoming stronger and pushing other toughts aside. I reached for the knife I carried in a worn sheath on my belt. It wasn't much of a knife, it had a four inch swept blade, but it was razor sharp as I kept it that way. The blade bore the inscription "The Coast Cutlery Co." and "Portland Oregon" in small letters, where I had purchased it used along with some reloading gear from an old hunter who was clearing out a storage unit many years earlier. That knife had accompanied me on many a hunt in America and had put a lot of meat in the freezer. But I had never used it in Africa, as there were always willing hands who took care of that aspect of the hunt.

I left the Meffert on the earth wall, it was of no use now, and cautiously approached my quarry, taking care to keep the small bush between me and his head. I had this incredible sense of alertness, of being alive, of focus. One hundred percent of my awareness was on the animal as I closed the distance. Time slowed down.


to be continued.

I was close enough now to see the Impala's chest rising and falling but I heard no sucking sound to indicate a lung shot or even a chest wound. As quietly as I could I made the final approach keeping as low as possible, then dove onto the Impala pressing it down with my body while my right hand grabbed one of the horns. With my left hand, I plunged the knife through the rib cage behind his exposed left shoulder blade, just below the large exit wound from my first shot. I was surprised how easily the blade slipped through the skin and ribs, into what felt like an empty cavity.

Just then my guide reappeared. I manipulated the knife to cut into what I hoped was the heart. Feeling a bit sheepish, I stood up and asked the him to grab the horns until we were sure the Impala was dead. He did so while I wiped my knife on the grass and returned it to its sheath.

Then to my amazement the Impala stood up. Now my guide was in front of it, holding the horns like a pair of handle bars. The Impala began shaking its head from side to side, in an attempt to free itself from this embrace. My guide, being about the size of a young teenager, was unable to subdue the animal and I feared he might release it. The shaking was so vigorous he looked like he might lose his footing but to his credit, he held on. I hesitated for a second as I surveyed this unbelievable scene, then tackled the Impala again, pressing it to the ground.

My guide indicated that I should knife it again, pointing to the spot. The two of us restraining it, I did so, angling more toward the front of the chest. At this the Impala stopped struggling and finally succumbed.

We turned the animal over and found the two entrance wounds, plus another exit wound in the front of his chest, below the neck. It appeared that my second shot had been deflected, turned about 45 degrees, and exited in front of the chest without damaging any vitals.

I don't remember dragging the Impala to the truck. My memory resumes at the skinning shed where we were able to see exactly what had happened. The first shot had gone through the chest cavity above the vitals but just below the spine. Its passage stunned the Impala but was not mortal. The second was indeed deflected after passing through the shoulder bone, exiting the front of the chest without doing major damage. In the end, it was the knife that was lethal.

I did not keep the horns, something I regret. I did take the skin and had a soft case made from it for the Meffert with the hair on, and a new sheath for the knife. I still have those but sold the gun after discovering that it was shooting erratically due to the barrels being loose on the action. Prior to the trip, I had sighted it and it grouped well. I surmise that the doubling on those Namibian Sand Grouse must have loosened it up. Ken Owen in Moscow TN rejointed the gun for me before I let it go. For some reason I hung onto the scope, which made the move with me from Oregon to Texas. Some years later, when my health took a turn for the worse and I began to think about tidying up my worldly affairs, perhaps 15 years after the events on that bright day, I contacted the gent who had purchased the gun from me. He still had it and was very interested to hear that I had the matching scope. So the two are now reunited somewhere in America, no worse for wear, and new stories to tell.

THE END!

Hunting in Chete, Zimbabwe.

We put some bait for hyenas down in a valley.

We made a hide on top of a hill over looking the bait.

We arrive very early in the morning, and find them feeding.

I shot one, the took one look towards us, and took off, never to be seen again??!

We were hoping to shoot a few.

Went down to the dead hyena.

When we looked up to the hide, we realized what has happened.

Our hide was made of sacking, and from down below, it was almost see through against the sky!

My wife's first safari in Masailand in 2017. She went out with us about every other day and I told her I didn't want her along when we were hunting buffalo because I didn't want to worry about where she was. She tends to wander looking at flowers and butterflies and whatnot.
That was the deal and we had agreed. But buffalo are where you find them.

We were tracking eland with my wife along and spotted some buffalo. I pointed out the buffalo to her and she looked at them in her binoculars. I thought she realized that the focus had changed, but apparently not.

Things happened a little fast at that point and most of the conversation was in Swahili. After I took the shot, we heard the bellow and everyone was getting ready for the follow-up. Things got a little quiet and my wife asked, "Did you get the eland?"

No one was sure how to respond. Was kind of funny. Hapana Pofu. Mbogo. Kufa. She had a great time, but had no idea what was going on until it was all over.