The Safari Court was clean and comfortable, and my itinerary had placed me there on a Sunday, so there was little in the way of souvenir shopping for me to do in the few hours that I had. I actually did some productive birding on the grounds as well as from my room’s window. The small Eros Airfield that catered only to domestic flights was literally next door, and the following morning I caught my flight and took off for the Caprivi. Prior to boarding I was subjected to yet another demand to examine and count my ammo (on a domestic flight!), and since I still had a few rounds left from Tholo I had to dig it out to comply. No other problems, and I was soon airborne.

We arrived at Mpacha, in the Caprivi, where I was met by my PH, Fred Bezuidenhout. Fred was quite a contrast to Steven. A couple of years my senior, Fred had the been-there, done-that look that instills confidence. We loaded my gear, had a quick lunch nearby, then drove the 1½ hours to Vaughan Fulton’s Classic Safaris camp in the Salambala concession. It was perfect: a lovely tent camp perched on a low bank overlooking a curving stretch of the Chobe River, which at this point formed the border between Namibia and Botswana. On the far side of the river was Botswana’s Chobe National Park, and the land there rose somewhat more abruptly and showed considerably more relief than our side did. We could see several kilometers up and down the river in both directions, and I became accustomed to seeing large numbers of game and birds at almost any time of day. The flora and fauna were obviously totally different than what I had seen at Tholo, and during my stay I was able to tally another hundred new bird species for my life list.

The camp itself was comfortable, with solar panels and generator for electricity, private washrooms complete with shower and toilet attached to each tent, soft clean beds, and a central dining tent with a fire pit facing the river. Camp decor included several large buffalo and elephant skulls, which did nothing to decrease my anticipation for the upcoming hunt.

My tent at Classic Safaris’ Salambala camp, on the banks of the Chobe...


After lunch, Fred and I went to a makeshift rifle range near camp to adjust my sights. Fred provided me with some 300gr TSX Federal Cape-Shoks which had been left by a previous hunter, AR’s Graylake. I had met Sid and his wife Erica on the road as I came in and they drove out. Always nice to encounter a fellow Canuck somewhere in the world.

The Cape-Shoks were what I had originally planned to use on this trip, and which were still back in Canada. A few shots and we had the gun printing properly, after which we went for a short walk and drive around the area near camp. This was where a previous hunter had shot his buffalo only a few days earlier, but we had no luck and returned to camp for the evening. I was secretly pleased that we hadn’t found a buff...it would have been too easy. This turned out not to be a problem.

This area had just experienced what was being referred to as a 1-in-50 year event in terms of flooding. People had been displaced, property damaged, and evidence of the high water was everywhere. Large pools and swamps remained where there should, at this time of year, have been dry land. Conditions were not ideal, but so far Fred had produced well for his hunters. Wendell had warned me when I booked this hunt that I should plan on getting wet, and this looked to be a sure thing.

Dry ground was a rarity after the recent severe flooding...


Day 2: My first full day hunting buffalo was spent in the Salambala area, which we combed for tracks for several hours with little luck. Zebra were abundant, and we watched a troop of baboons across the river in the Botswana park...and safe from us.

After lunch we continued our tour of the area, again producing no results, although we managed to stay dry. Upon returning to camp for the evening, I met the other hunting party in camp, AR’s Michael Robinson and his son Brian, who were hunting elephant with Vaughan Fulton as their PH. Father and son hunting 2-on-1...the perfect safari. Mike and Brian were great campmates during my stay and provided plenty of wonderful evening campfire conversation and humour throughout the week.

The day ended with what became our usual fireside drink, and it was here that I spotted my first live African buffalo: three big bulls materializing from the brush on the Botswana side, perhaps a kilometer east of camp. They slowly crossed the river to our side and melted into the gloom.

Day 3: Today we headed out before dawn for the Kasika conservancy, some 50 kilometers to the east. Buffalo were thin on the ground in Salambala, and tended to cross over from the Botswana side at dark, returning before dawn to the safety of Chobe National Park. The road to Kasika was an adventure, a twisting, muddy, rutted, sometimes-invisible-but-always-entertaining two-track goatpath that always had our full attention. Fred’s driving skills were considerable, and he made three water crossings on this road (two of which were difficult, and one clearly impossible), coming and going, each day of my hunt. These were flooded sections that in normal years would have been quite dry. Once I waded across before the truck, wanting to photograph the crossing, and I knew for a fact that the truck could not possibly cross...except that it had already made the crossing earlier, and would again...and again...

Water, water everywhere...


The Kasika “camp” was really just a pair of tents, more a minimalist operations base than a camp. It looked out over the same Chobe River as Salambala, but here the stream was probably 200 yards wide. The slow river was split by many large, grass-covered islands, and the same tall grass carpeted the wide floodplain on the opposite shore that eventually rose into the hills. Hippos grazed the islands, and across the river stood the first wild elephants I had ever seen...an unforgettable tableau.

I never thought that I’d say the phrase “just another elephant”, but they were so abundant...


We quickly loaded our gear into a large, aluminum, canopied boat styled like an enormous jonboat, and headed downriver, spotting many more elephants and the occasional crocodile on the riverbank. I tightly cinched down the laces on my mesh-and-nylon watershoes, noticing that almost everyone else was wearing the type of canvas jungle boot that I had considered and rejected. Hmmm.....

We made several stops, hiking inland and across several kilometers of swamp each time, looking for buffalo sign. Most of the ground was muddy, and much was flooded to anywhere from ankle- to waist-depth. The grass ranged in height from cattle-grazed ankle-high to well over eight feet tall. Virtually all of the flooded areas were so choked with vegetation that the water was largely invisible. The matted greenery actually made walking somewhat easier in the deeper spots, cushioning footfalls and slowing the rate at which one’s feet plunged toward and into the mucky bottom. This necessitated extremely high stepping to avoid a tangled and muddy nosedive.

Lift those knees...


We made three of these inland sortees, several kilometers apart along the river, finding no buffalo sign of recent vintage...but the buffalo could easily move about in the shallow flooded fields, leaving little visible sign. On one occasion, as we crossed a dry area with particularly tall and thick grass, the sound of heavy hoofprints put us on full alert. A second later, we got a brief glimpse of a cow buffalo as she dashed through a small clearing, then listened to the entire group thunder away. The grass was an impenetrable and opaque wall. We finally returned to our boat and motored back to our launch point, and then drove back to Salambala mostly in darkness. I was muddy, exhausted, sweaty, and totally exhilarated.

Day 4: Back to Kasika again, where we drove to several different areas to check for sign, as well as watching for buffalo themselves. At our third stop I found waiting for us that most fiendish of human devices...the mokoro. Fred had mentioned that we would be using this mode of transport at least a couple of times, and each time I saw one being poled down the Chobe I watched with interest. That looked cool!

Don’t move...just relax...easy....


It looked waaay different from my crouched position in/on that ridiculous craft. The first crossing was a short one, perhaps 100 yards of water shallow enough that I seriously considered wading. Fred vetoed that idea due to treacherous bottom conditions, and so I found myself gripping and clenching the tiny toothpick of a boat so tightly that I’m certain I would have adhered to it by anal suction alone if it overturned. Fred, naturally, stood upright in the bow of his mokoro, adding to my embarrassment. We made the crossing without incident, then proceeded across a long and thankfully dry meadow of short grass and found ourselves at a muddy waterhole, really just a wide spot in a ditch of churned mud. Here we found the tracks of three large buffalo, and set off after them. We followed for several kilometers, reaching and then roughly paralleling a branch of the Chobe. We encountered several lone elephant, most of them feeding in tall papyrus. We also saw a number of crocodile sunning themselves along the channel. At one point we startled a young hippo, which sounded like a truck barreling toward us through the tall grass. He burst into view perhaps 20 yards in front of us, running across our pathway at full speed into the river channel. That had my full attention! At another location, as we slogged our way across yet another interminable flooded section, I glanced up and got my first and only look at a red lechwe as it watched us, then strode casually away.

After several hours, broken only by a short break to eat a couple of sandwiches, we were pushing our way through one of the innumerable groves of head-high grass, having just emerged from swamp crossing #2475. This had been one of the wider water crossings that we had undertaken, and by the time we reached the far side and emerged to the dryer ground and tall grass we had spread out over a front about 40 yards across. I swung over to follow Victor into the grass, and Banga joined us as well. We had only progressed a hundred yards or so, when Victor stopped dead, peering ahead. Banga craned his neck, then turned to me and mouthed “BIG ONE” frantically. I could see nothing from my position, only 3 or 4 yards behind them, and plunged forward. When I reached Victor, he pointed sadly at a darker spot in the grass, where a few swaying fronds indicated the passage of the bull. Fred chastised us all, quite deservedly, for not sticking together.

We waited a bit, then took up the tracks again, but that was the one and only real contact that we had with those bulls. Their previously haphazard course now turned into a long, looping curve which led us after several more kilometers back to this impossibly thick grassland. Visibility in this miniature prehistoric jungle was measured in feet or inches. Fred suggested that our most reasonable course of action would be to call off the chase as he did not believe that we could catch these bulls unawares again. Fortunately, the many meandering kilometers that we had covered had deposited us only about 2 kilometers from the truck, and with evening approaching we made our way back and began the long drive to camp with some light still in the sky. I had high hopes for the morrow.

Day 5: As we loaded the truck in the predawn chill, I heard it...the distant roar of a lion, the most evocative and chilling sound I have ever experienced. The day was already a success!

I could have listened indefinitely, but we had a buffalo to kill, so we were off. On the road to Kasika, which seemed to be infinitesimally drier now, we observed many elephant, as well as two small groups of buffalo. One herd was on the Botswana side of the Chobe, while the other was found halfway between our two hunting areas.

When we arrived at Kasika we proceeded to a wide channel of the Chobe, perhaps 200 yards across, and prepared for the mokoro crossing. I was an old hand now, and almost relaxed as Victor poled us smoothly across the calm water. Fred casually mentioned that if we overturned, to stay with the mokoro and watch for crocodiles. He didn’t explain what to do if they showed up.

Once across we walked a kilometer or so to a small, rounded hill that projected up from the unrelieved flatness of the surrounding swampy ground and was topped with a tremendous termite mound. This afforded an impressive view of the surrounding area, but sadly no buffalo materialized. All throughout the week this scenario was repeated...any small hill or tree that increased visibility was utilized as a lookout.

Elevated lookout perches...



Back we went to the channel, recrossing it and returning to the truck. We covered a few kilometers through the tall grass, with Victor and Banga alternating as lookout from atop the truck cab. After visiting a small village in search of buffalo intelligence, we set out in the truck across a virtual sea of tall grass, much of it 3 meters or more in height. Again one of the trackers was always in place on top of the cab, directing our slow progress and simultaneously scanning the distance for our quarry.

We finally emerged from the far side of the grass and continued across a flat area with little growth. Within moments a muffled exclamation from the trackers spun Fred’s head around. A quick exchange with the men, and he turned to me and stated flatly “Buffalo”. I tossed the last bite of a sandwich into my mouth, then answered calmly “Good. Let’s go get one”, attempting to convey interest without overexcitement.

The smallish herd consisted of black spots in the distance. The flooded area at that point dictated that we continue on for another kilometer or so before attempting an approach. When we achieved a good crosswind position, we searched for a route to close with the buffalo, and eventually decided that we would be forced to wade an especially wide and deep flooded area, traverse a narrow finger of dry land, then cross a smaller marshy flat. This would place us on the same dry pan as the buffalo, where we could use the cover of a low brushy patch to approach within shooting range. We entered the water at the narrowest point of the crossing (perhaps 200 yards), which proved to be almost waist deep in many places, and proceeded across. As we approached the far side, Fred turned and suggested that I toss him my camera so that he could snap a photo of me in the swamp. I made a poor throw that he saved only by lunging almost to his armpits in the dank water, but save it he did. He took a couple of quick pictures, then turned, stumbled, and promptly dropped my camera into the opaque water.

My last major wading expedition, about crotch deep, but with a buffalo waiting....


Banga, standing nearby, groped quickly into the murk and succeeded in retrieving the camera after only a minute or so of immersion, and I quickly removed the memory card and battery, hoping for the best as I tucked it into my chest pocket. We slogged the last few yards to the bank and dragged ourselves onto dry land. We were now only a half kilometer from our goal, the brushy patch from which we expected to regain sight of the buffalo. We headed for the remaining water crossing, and I was already on high alert, looking ahead to the point where we would begin the final crawl and reestablish visual contact. We moved quietly, Fred and Zachariah in the lead, followed by Victor and me. Most of the grass here was roughly head high, much of it very thick. The last bit of water glinted a hundred yards ahead of us.

Without warning, a dark mud-encrusted form burst from the tall grass on our right and tore across directly in front us at less than 20 yards, snorting and grunting with head held high, obviously searching for the source of its disturbance as it vanished into the grass on the left. Fred hissed and gestured frantically for the sticks and for me, Victor leaped aside to clear the path, and Zachariah simply evaporated. I dashed forward a few paces and seized the sticks that Fred had slammed down, peering through the grass in the direction that he indicated. The buff was there, 20 yards away, only his head, neck, and the top of his shoulders visible through the grass. His body seemed to be broadside to us, and he did indeed look at me as though I owed him...an explanation. Fred hissed “Shoot, down into the grass!” I aimed as low as I thought I dared, grasping the sticks like a monopod, and squeezed off a shot. The buffalo disappeared instantly. We rushed forward, Fred waving me up on his right. After only a few steps the buffalo came into view, struggling on its side. With the grass obscuring the bulk of his body, I had misjudged the depth of his chest and aimed higher on his shoulder than I would have liked. The bullet had broken his shoulder and clipped his spine, dropping him in his tracks, down but not quite out. I put in two finishers and Fred cautiously tested the still form, but it was over. From start to finish: perhaps 90 seconds, perhaps a bit less.

I knelt next to the animal, speechless and stunned. Fred had warned me early in the week that when it happened it might be very fast, but I was still in shock. Fred displayed a level of respect for the downed buffalo that I admired, while the trackers discreetly kept their distance after the initial round of congratulations and hand-shaking. I literally had to choke back tears. After a short time we arranged the bull for photos, taken with Fred’s camera, the first trophy photos of my life that don’t feature an insane grin on my face...I simply couldn’t smile.

A photo 46 years in the making...


Fred and I with the buff...one of us is verrry excited....


Fred departed with Zachariah to see if he could get the truck any closer to our position, and I eventually sat down in the dry trampled grass and watched Banga and Victor methodically dismantle the bull. They handed me two bullets, one extracted from its lodgment in the bull’s shattered off-shoulder, and another (one of the two finishers) that had come to rest under the skin of the back, having entered from below as the bull lay on its side. I carefully stored the perfect little metal mushrooms in my pocket, then ran my hand over the forearm of my rifle, where Victor’s axe had sliced a sharp divot out of the checkering during the frantic seconds of mad action that marked the initial appearance of the buffalo. This is one stock blemish that I will never repair.

L ro R: Michael, Kasika scout Victor, tracker Zachariah, Banga, and some crazy Canuck who is finally starting to smile...


The bull won’t go into any record books, but he has the nice deep curls that I admire and wide bosses, though with a bit of softness at the front. I like old animals as trophies, and wish he had a couple more years behind him, but Fred made a good call considering the number of buffalo that we were (or weren’t) seeing. I don’t regret the experience at all.

After an hour we were treated to the sound of the truck labouring through the tall grass. It appeared from a totally unexpected direction, and came to rest 10 feet from the bull. Fred had found a circuitous route that would save a lot of walking, wading, and carrying of meat. We quickly loaded up and left for the conservancy office to fill in the necessary forms and drop off the meat.

After dark that night we sat around the fire and listened to the roaring of at least 4 different lions, seemingly coming from all directions. A perfect end to this perfect day.

Day 6: Fred and I spent some time looking for a troop of baboons that was known to be in the area. A tip from a local man led us to them, and after we executed a careful and painstaking stalk that brought me to within 150 yards of a nice dog baboon, I rested my left hand on the branch of a tree at just the right height, laid my rifle across it, took a breath and sent a bullet in his direction. Apparently it was only his general direction, as neither Fred nor I had any clue where it hit...certainly nowhere on or near the baboon. Fred very diplomatically suggested that the barrel might have contacted the tree, or that I might have clipped an unseen twig. Thanks, Fred, but basically I just plain missed.

And that was the conclusion of my hunting. I had ended this second portion of my trip as I had the first, i.e. with a display of terrible shooting...but, in general, I was still in need of plastic surgery to remove the gigantic goofy grin from my face. That evening, we did a little bit of casual angling in the Chobe, from the shore directly in front of camp. Using a hefty chunk of raw meat for bait, I eventually hooked and played a large fish for about ten minutes, but sadly lost it.

Day 7: This last day I spent loafing around camp, doing some birding and catching up on my hunt journal. I had a chance to inspect some of the previous hunters’ trophies at the skinning shack, picked up a last few new bird species, and just relaxed in a camp chair enjoying the view up and down the Chobe. A beautiful male sable appeared across the channel and bullied the small group of waterbuck that was present, and three giraffes came to water and awkwardly drank. We also drove in to Mpacha so that Fred could run a few errands while I snapped some photos and bought a few small souvenirs.

The next morning I caught the return flight to Windhoek, spent the night in town and then boarded the Air Namibia flight for Frankfurt. Reversing my original flight plan went very smoothly, but my rifle case failed to arrive in Toronto with me. After waiting a couple of hours while they looked for it, Lufthansa sent me home with a promise of delivering the case to my home when it showed up. Sure enough, a taxi brought it the next day, none the worse for wear. I was thankful that this happened on the return trip rather than at the beginning. How ironic...after a couple weeks of observing the disorganization and confusion of Africa, the only real problem that I encountered was apparently (according to Lufthansa) caused in ultra-efficient Deutschland.

This trip exceeded my expectations in virtually every way...and my expectations were pretty high. Some fantastic stalks, some nice plains game trophies, my first cape buffalo, 215 species of birds for my life list...memories for a lifetime. I would unhesitatingly recommend both Tholo Safaris and Classic Safaris to anyone interested in this type of hunt.

Next time? I originally had planned on only one African hunt...I don’t travel to hunt very often, and I want each trip to be totally new and different. If I return to Africa at all, it will be for an elephant...or (just as exciting) to hunt plains game with my granddaughter.

My sincere gratitude goes to Saeed for the invaluable source of information that is AR, and to the many regular posters here who were so helpful to me when I was in the planning stages, and particularly to the incomparable Judge G. Thanks, guys.

John

This report is also outstanding. You're quite honest and quite funny. I wouldn't mind sharing a camp with you. It is a fine buffalo and your photos, by the way, are very good. Well done I say.

Great job John, you worked for that Buff for sure.

Very entertaining read and you have a nice way of slipping in a few "zingers" that really made me laugh.

Congrats on some fine trophies and a great safari!

Great report and congrats.

Yep, read both reports from beginning to end. All I can say is well done.


Mad Dog

John
Congratulations on your Buffalo,and a wonderful safari!

Great report! I hunted elephant with Fred in Kasika in October of 09. What a fellow he is.

great report, hope you do return with, or without your granddaughter. When you do, share it with us.

Thank you for sharing, I suspect you will return

Great report and that buff is just fine...If I didn't know better it looked like you were in the delta somewhere. He didn't even have a snorkle. Amazing what those guys can do with their vehicles.

Thanks to all for your positive comments. The buffalo isn't quite the specimen for which I hoped, but he's close enough and he's all mine.

Now if I can just get him home...my trophies are all in various stages of limbo here in Canada. The anticipation is nearly as bad (or good?) as that leading up to the hunt itself!

John

Congratulations on an excellent hunt and a wonderful trip report. You did a great job of transmitting the emotions we have all felt upon realizing the achievement of a dream.

Start planning and saving now, you will be going back to Africa!

Fine report and well done on your hard won trophy buff.

Great report, hunt and buffalo. Appreciate your sharing with us and very well written and interesting throughout.

Enjoyed this report as much as the first. Great hunt and wonderful trophies. I enjoyed your thoughtfulness and humor very much and appreciate you sharing the adventure with us! Look forward to seeing your next report <grin> because we all figure you will go back.

John, I missed your report until now. I haven't been checking this forum as often as I used to do.

I really enjoyed reading this. It took me back. Brian and I enjoyed our time in camp with you very much.

That is a hard core hunting area and you sure did it right. Congrats again!

John;

This report was as informative/entertaining as your first. Thoroughly enjoyable!

I loved your explanation of the mokoro, for all who have used them, you were quite accurate. As stable as a floating tree trunk!

I would not have passed up on that buffalo either!

I know you will go back!

Best Regards, D. Nelson