Africa Bloodsport 2011

Editor's Note:  More pictures will be added to this post as time permits, so check back periodically!

What Got Us Into This Boondoggle

In May of 2010, my friend Jim Dudley joined my dad, my brother, Brian, my granddad and myself at a Friends of the NRA benefit banquet/auction/drunk.  All was going well until a 7-day guided hunting safari for 2 came up on the auction roster.  It was strategically placed therein so that sufficient libations would have been consumed beforehand—these being money-raising affairs of the first order.  Bidding opened at $5k, and Jim took the bait, “reasoning” that he would surely be outbid.  Nobody else lifted a card, and Jim spent the balance of the evening instantly sobered, with the countenance of someone who’d soiled himself in the middle of a job interview (well, as I imagine such a countenance—I draw from no personal or anecdotal experience here).  He was undoubtedly anticipating a bloody row with the spousal unit, and this produced a level of dread which rendered him utterly impervious to my many attempts at mirth and merriment, and to prevail upon him that he’d probably calm down if only he’d chug a fifth of Jack Daniels.  That night, when he fessed up to his loving and patient spouse, she exclaimed that this was “the stupidest (expletive) thing you’ve done in all the years I’ve known you.”  He replied, “Now wait just a minute!”  She was later forced to admit she’d spoken in haste, and that this didn’t even make the top 10.  Jim’s anxiety was compounded when, a day or two later, it became apparent that his traditional hunting partner would not be able to accompany him on this caper.  After some brief research revealed that a package deal for 4 hunters would be a far greater value than the package for 2 Jim had purchased, my father at length took pity on the poor soul and offered to join him, along with Brian and myself, making the trip a much more cost-effective endeavor—if such can be said of the most grossly expensive game-chasing I’m ever likely to do.  We proceeded with the many necessary arrangements, and set up for an April 26, 2011 departure from Portland to Atlanta to Johannesburg. 

A Word on Rifles and Cartridges

Those lacking knowledge of or interest in firearms will probably want to skip this section.  We would be hunting plains game—the various species of African antelope and perhaps the two species of indigenous pig (warthog and bush pig).  All of these are reputed to be on the tough side for hooved fare and swine, though none qualify as “dangerous game,” e.g. the African Big 5 (leopard, lion, Cape buffalo, elephant, rhino).  Most are the size of large mule deer or smallish elk, although the Blue Wildebeest is considerably larger, and the Cape Eland is enormous.  African game has an almost mythical reputation for clinging to life more tenaciously than similar sized animals on the other continents, although many dispute this.  Personally, I doubt there’s a tougher creature, pound-for-pound, than the three species of American wapiti, or elk.  I’ve personally witnessed elk appearing unaffected by solid hits that would have killed or instantly disabled ordinary animals.  In any case, none would require the legal minimum caliber for dangerous game of .375 or a big bore such as the various .416s and .458s.  Our guide told us to expect shot distances ranging from 40 to 250 yards, meaning medium-bore rifles of moderate-to-high power and solidly reliable accuracy would make the most sense under the circumstances.  Wounded animals would cost the entire trophy fee, same as if cleanly killed.  This was a consideration in rifle selection.

Brian and Jim opted for the .300 Remington Ultra Magnum, and dad for the 7mm Remington Magnum.  These are both very powerful weapons which hurl projectiles of between 140 and 200 grains at muzzle velocities well in excess of 3000 feet per second (fps) on very flat trajectories out to 300 yards, and which remain highly effective (in the hands of a rifleman who knows what he’s doing) as far out as 500.  All three brought ugly, utilitarian rifles of the stainless barrel/synthetic stock variety which could double as boat paddles or, for that matter, anchors.  There is plenty to be said for such rifles.  They hold up well in bad weather, are very difficult to damage or break, and heartbreak is unlikely to ensue if they are lost.  One seldom develops an attachment to this sort of rifle; they are tools and nothing more.  Ever the romantic, I opted for something more akin to the classic safari rifles that have enraptured all who have read too much of the exploits of Selby and Ruark, Hemingway, Jordan and Taylor.  My recently acquired pre-64 Model 70 Winchester in .35 Whelen, with an elegant Fajen fiddleback maple stock, is one of the loveliest such pieces I ever beheld.  Originally, the plan was to bring my Winchester Supergrade Featherweight in 6.5 mm Swedish Mauser, an almost equally comely affair.  It was a bit marginal on the power scale, however, and wounding was not an option.  Margin of error, I decided, should be held to a minimum, and the Whelen expels a projectile of 250 grains at a respectable 2600 fps.  I reasoned that in the unlikely event a screw-up on my part were to result in an ill-placed shot, an animal hulled by a heavy slug of relatively large diameter would be less likely to run off on me than one hit with a lighter, skinnier pill at comparable velocity.  The Whelen is the ballistic twin of the legendary 9.3 mm Mauser, which has taken untold numbers of African trophies over the last century.  The two other “also rans” were my .338 Winchester Magnum (rejected due to the aforementioned boat paddle/anchor qualities, though otherwise an excellent choice) and my 45-70 (which has both the devastating impact and arching trajectory of a bowling ball launched by a trebuchet, and thus would have been an iffy proposition in terms of accuracy beyond 100 yards).



L to R:  The 300 Remington Ultra Magnum (Brian and Jim), the 7mm Remington Magnum (dad), and the .35 Whelen (me).  The “also-rans” on the right are the .338 Winchester Magnum, the 45-70 and the 6.5 x 55, also known as the Swedish Mauser.  All are capable cartridges, though the four of us were happy with our ultimate choices.

Getting There

The donor of this excursion to the banquet was Authentic African Adventures (www.authenticafricanadventures.org).  After an Ambien-assisted death trek totaling 20-odd hours in the air from Portland to Atlanta to Johannesburg (getting there is zero percent of the fun), we were met at Or Tambo International Airport by the outfitter’s proprietors, Johannes “Hanno” van Rensburg and his partner and fellow professional hunter (PH), Shaun.  Hanno and Shaun escorted us to the police station attached to the airport to pick up our rifles and obtain our temporary rifle and ammunition import permits.  Then we were off for the roughly 4-hour trip to Hanno’s ranch and compound. 

At one point as we neared the ranch, and after everyone in the vehicle (save Hanno) had drunk improbable amounts of whiskey from a common jug, we came upon three donkeys wandering the side of the highway with their front legs tied together to hobble them.  Hanno prevailed upon Jim and myself to ride them, so each of the three of us mounted one.  For Hanno, who is (really) seven feet tall, this merely meant sitting astride one with both feet on the ground.  Jim and I mounted the undoubtedly irritated but essentially helpless beasts, whereupon Hanno hauled off and gave mine a stout whack on the rump.  He bolted, of course, with me grappling frantically at his mane.  Hanno let forth with a roaring guffaw.  He’s a big kid.

We arrived at the van Rensburg ranch quite late, and definitely drunk by naval standards.  I remember being introduced to Danie Kruger, another of Hanno’s PHs, dealing with our dunnage and pouring myself into bed.

The Place and its People

Hanno is large (literally) and in charge, running a tight operation with excellent staff that know their business.  Accommodations were as comfortable as we could have wished.  Two dozen odd Sotho (pronounced “sootoo”) live and work on the compound as cooks, gardeners, maids, farm hands, trackers, skinners and so forth.  One, Petrus, is also a PH.  The white folks—Hanno’s family members, plus Shaun and Danie—are Afrikaners.  Their first language is Afrikaans which, near as I was able to gather, is probably most closely related to Flemish or Belgian Dutch.  It’s got a smattering of German, Portuguese, Malay and Bantu thrown in for good measure, and has evolved into a distinct dialect since the early settlement of the Cape by a mixture of European peoples who came to be known as the Boers starting in the mid Seventeenth Century.  Afrikaners can converse, albeit with some difficulty, with both Netherlanders and Germans.  To the ear, Afrikaans is quite sonorous and pleasant-sounding, with little of the curt severity and harsh consonants one hears in German.  White South Africans tend to be descended either from the Boers or from the British, who were later arrivals to the Cape.  These latter speak English as their first language.  South Africa has 11 official languages, which also include various tribal dialects such as Sotho, Xhosa and, of course, Zulu.  Virtually all South Africans are at least bilingual, and many are multilingual.  English tends to be the common and most widely spoken language between South Africans who would otherwise be unable to understand one another.  Hanno and all of his white staff speak excellent English, though that of the Sotho tended to be more limited.

Afrikaners are definitely my kind of people.  The men are robust, rugged and good-natured, the women pretty and friendly (in the purely conversational sense—I’m extremely married).  Think Charlize Theron.  They may well be the only people on the planet who like sugar and salt even more than Americans, and virtually every meal contains some form of heavily seasoned meat.  I can honestly say I’ve now eaten more kudu, gemsbok, wildebeest and buffalo than I’d ever thought possible.  They’re also just plain giddy about corn grits, pap and yams, and liberally sprinkle peri-peri, a sauce made from a local pepper, on most of what they eat.  Redneck fine dining at its best!  They’re altogether intelligent and industrious folks, and fun to get to know.

The Sotho were a bit tougher to become acquainted with due to the language barrier, but were amiable, decent and extremely hard-working.  They also possess supreme game spotting and tracking skills from a lifetime spent in the bush.

The van Rensburg ranch occupies 4000 acres in the heart of the bushveld country of Limpopo Province, the most northeastern province of the Republic, and lies about 200 miles north of Johannesburg.  It’s about 30 miles south of the border with Botswana and 50-odd miles southwest of the border with its basketcase neighbor, Zimbabwe.  Both borders are formed by the Limpopo River.  In addition to his own ranch, Hanno has hunting concessions on several neighboring ranches of similar size, and on the spectacular, 30,000-acre Shelanti Game Ranch a dozen or so miles away, which is owned by his wife, Bardina’s parents.  All of these properties maintain impressive numbers of well-managed wildlife.  The bushveld is ideally suited for supporting herbivores.  It is quite flat, which makes walking great distances relatively easy, although punctuated here and there with high, rocky monoliths that appear to have burst forth from the earth at random.  Its rich, rust-colored soil produces copious grasses and shrubs, and the climate contains the right combination of rain and sun to keep it growing in great profusion.  It’s the sort of ground that would undoubtedly be high desert if at a more southerly latitude, as most of it is at 3000 feet or higher.  The climate, at least at the time of year we went, is ideal.  It was between 65 and 80 every day.  It’s quite a bit hotter and wetter in the summer, which we had just avoided, and cooler and drier in the winter. 

The landscape consists of shrubs and—to my Oregonian eyes, at least—stunted trees which never exceed 30 feet.  There are large tracts of open grassland here and there, but it’s mostly a more or less even distribution of medium-sized shrubs.  So it’s ideal for both grazers and browsers.  Unless you happen to catch game in the open, animals are able to vanish quite quickly into the foliage at ranges of 150 yards or less.

The other thing that struck me as I familiarized myself with the area is that it has a striking diversity of avifauna.  If I were a bird watcher, which I’m definitely not, I’m sure I could spend two weeks afield there with nary a dull moment.  And it’s a wingshooter’s wet dream.  I will definitely bring a fowling piece if I ever make it back.  The locals don’t really get all that jacked up about hunting game birds, and would look at me as though I were half crazy whenever I would express excitement about the staggering numbers of them.  An hour’s walk through the bushveld could easily yield more birds than any hunter could carry.  There are francolin, a grouse-like partridge about the size of a chukkar, by the truckload.  Sand grouse, guinea fowl, quail and at least 3 species of dove—all bigger than our diminutive mourning doves and closer to pigeon-sized—also abound.

It’s not all easy going in the bushveld.  Aardvark holes are ubiquitous, and you’ll step in one and break your ankle if inattentive.  There are also various species of acacia thorn bushes, though describing their two-inch spikes as “thorns” is the height of understatement.  Between the spikes are backward-hooking smaller thorns resembling a house cat’s claws, and with the same ability to grab hold of clothing and skin.  God was having a bad day when He designed the acacia.  There are enormous orb weavers more than two inches across literally EVERYWHERE, and they have a most unnerving tendency to construct their webs at about face height.  It put this arachnophobe on edge.  Ticks, mites and biting flies are par for the course, so a good repellent should be liberally applied.  Finally, if you go in the summer, it can be snakey.  This wasn’t a concern when we were there, as the nights had gotten cool enough to drive things that slither into their dens.  But during the hot part of the year, there are puff adders, at least five species of cobra that can seriously kill you, and of course mamba.  Snakes don’t bother me anywhere near as much as spiders, so I wasn’t that alarmed.  Also, on the first day I awoke in my room, there was a wasp on the wall that looked as though it could carry off a medium-sized squirrel.  I hit him with a rolled-up towel, which merely pissed him off, and an epic battle ensued before I victoriously flushed him down the commode.  He’s probably plotting his revenge from an undisclosed location in the septic tank.

These sonsabitches are EVERYWHERE!    

As are these.

Hunting, Day 1

After sleeping in and breakfasting, the four of us and two of the PHs proceeded to the rifle range to make certain our field pieces were still zeroed after having been subjected to airport professionals.  My first shot punched the X ring, and the second two landed about three inches low and left at 100 yards.  Danie kept urging me to adjust my scope until I finally prevailed upon him that it was the jaded shooter, not his equipment, that was the problem that particular morning.

Everyone had his own agenda as to which animals would have priority, though there was considerable overlap.  I wanted, in order of priority, a kudu bull, a warthog boar, a gemsbok (or oryx) and perhaps a blue wildebeest bull.  So on the first day we divided into a few groups based on what each hunter was after.  I went with Hanno, and we did some spot-and-stalk hunting from a point of origin he selected on his own ranch.  We crept along for a time, occasionally jumping zebra, red hartebeest and blue wildebeest (the larger of the two main wildebeest species, also known as the brindled gnu).  A tsessebe bull followed us for a time, keeping about 100 yards distant with his eyes never leaving us, and snorting the occasional challenge.  Tsessebe are a dark-brown, short-haired, powerfully built antelope with horns somewhat resembling those of a wildebeest in their shape, though they are much smaller (perhaps 250 pounds to a wildebeest’s 5-600).

After sneaking around for a time, Hanno decided we should conceal ourselves in the shade of some acacia shrubs and let the game wander past us.  We watched numerous zebra, impala and wildebeest milling about, carrying on a whispered conversation and getting to know one another.  Hanno’s boyish enthusiasm as he described how much he enjoyed doing this sort of thing told me that, like me, he’s a hunting fool who derives serious satisfaction from what he does for a living.  As we conversed, we continued to watch the animals 200 or so yards off.  Out of nowhere I was startled by movement in the periphery of my vision, and a half second later registered a warthog barreling almost directly toward us, quartering slightly to our left.  It was obvious he didn’t see us.  Warthogs are amazingly fast and have terrific ears and noses, but lousy eyesight.  In a whispered shout, I exclaimed, “Warthog!”  An instant later, Hanno bellowed, “He’s huge!  Shoot him!”  I had my scope set at 4x, and by the time I got the rifle up and tracking, he was so close he completely filled the field of view.  3x would have been better.  In any case, I fired in the fraction of a second the crosshairs landed where I thought they needed to be on the animal.  Hanno was to my left, and the pig was running at extreme speed right to left.  In retrospect, I believe it might have been Hanno’s presence that kept me from swinging the rifle as aggressively as I should have in order to place the reticle half a foot or so ahead of where the impact needed to be.  Anyway, enough excuses—I gut shot the poor bugger.  I felt sick about it.  Every hunted animal deserves to be killed humanely, and now we would be tracking a large, wounded boar.  As I would later learn, there probably isn’t an animal on earth tougher than a warthog.  I thought about the nickname of our A-10 attack jets—the “Warthog.”  I’d always assumed they were so named because they’re ugly, but it could just as well be their ability to soak up prodigious amounts of ground fire and remain aloft.  An ill-hit warthog can go like a runaway train, a lesson that would be reinforced with a more extreme example a few days later.  Hanno immediately radioed his Sotho trackers.  Jim and my dad also happened to be nearby with Shaun and Petrus, and all joined in the search.  The Sotho have an ability to find and stay on blood that must be seen to be believed.  We tracked him for at least an hour over an erratic, zigzagging course.  When Jim finally spotted him, he was very nearly out of gas.  I quickly put one through his boiler room, happy and relieved for his ordeal to be over.  It was a hell of a way to start the week’s hunting, and I was both morose and eager to redeem myself with better shooting for the other animals on my list.

After a hearty lunch and midday siesta—de rigeur for these safaris—Hanno and I hunted until sundown with no further success (though, as always, spotting numerous, magnificent animals).  When we returned to the ranch after dark, there was a celebratory atmosphere in the skinning shed.  Hoisted on gambrels were a very nice wildebeest bull taken by Brian (after, I’m pleased to report, air-balling it with the first shot) and a HUGE gemsbok cow taken by Jim.  Gemsbok cows and bulls have essentially zero sexual dimorphism, and often the cows are more impressive to look at.  Their horns tend to be longer, since they don’t get worn down by fighting.  With the addition of stunning impala and blesbuck rams taken by, respectively, Jim and Brian earlier in the day, it was quite a haul for the first day of a seven-day safari!

Skinners at work on Brian’s wildebeest and Jim’s gemsbok.                             

Brian’s blesbuck ram from earlier in the day.

Jim’s impala. 

Brian’s wildebeest, Day 1.

Jim, Petrus, and Jim's gemsbok

Hunting, Day 2

The following morning I was hell-bent on either a kudu or a gemsbok, having seen neither on Day 1.  Hanno suggested I seize an opportunity for a hartebeest or wildebeest.  I told him I wasn’t interested in any of those until I’d taken a kudu and gemsbok, which produced a roll of the eyes in response.  He urged me to seize whatever opportunities might present themselves, since there would be no telling when I might see those two particular antelope.  I pondered this as Shaun, Steven (a Sotho tracker) and I crept through the brush.  We came upon two very nice red hartebeest bulls, odd-looking, long-faced creatures, first once, then again.  Both offered completely shootable presentations both times we encountered them.  After the second time we bumped them, I told Shaun I’d probably take one should it happen a third time.  He replied that it probably wouldn’t that day, and turned out to be right.  Those two bulls would later become known as Burt and Ernie.

Later that morning, the three of us joined up with dad and Hanno and did some wider scouting in one of the Land Cruisers.  Presently we came upon a mixed herd of wildebeest and zebra.  Suddenly from the jumbled mass of bodies darted a nice gemsbok bull—the first gemsbok of either gender I’d seen since our arrival.  I tracked him through my riflescope as he bolted at a brisk pace from left to right at about 80 yards, occasionally disappearing behind foliage.  All at once, and for no discernable reason, he stopped in a gap in the trees, giving me a perfect broadside presentation.  I asked Shaun if he was a good one, never taking my eye from the scope.  He said, “Take him,” and half a second later I fired.  He was hit hard through both lungs, though a bit high for the heart (African antelope keep their hearts somewhat lower and farther back in their chests than North American ungulates, and it took me a while to figure this out).  But he was well hit, and spun in two or three circles with blood spraying out both sides of him like a garden hose.  I knew he wouldn’t be hard to track.  We found him a hundred yards away, dead as a haddock without so much as a twitch left in him.  It was gratifying after the warthog debacle.  We loaded him into the Cruiser, and I was struck by how he continued to bleed buckets for the next hour and more.  I’ve been around scores of large, dead animals in nearly 30 years of hunting, and never have I seen anything bleed like this gemsbok.  I dwell on this not to be macabre, but because it was a curious and extraordinary thing.  The pick-up bed was a half inch deep in the stuff, and it spilled in great volume out of the back anytime we were on any sort of uphill grade.  They’re full-blooded animals to be sure, and this must have much to do with their amazing strength, speed and power.  Such an animal! 

 Finding my gemsbok.  L to R:  Hanno, Shaun, Steven, Yster (“iron”).  

I’d forgotten I put a stupid guinea fowl feather in my hat!

As we made our way back to camp for the midday break, we came upon a group of wildebeest.  A blue wildebeest was my “maybe” animal, and one particular bull in this group was looking particularly massive.  He obligingly stopped at a gap in the thicket, but was facing me.  Shaun urged me to take the shot, but I’ve had it drilled into my head literally from childhood that the “brisket-on” shot is problematic—too many things can go wrong with that one.  He ran off, and we all resigned ourselves to a blown chance.  Then, just as suddenly, he reappeared in the same place, broadside and facing right.  This time I didn’t botch the heart shot, and the 250-grain Speer Hotcore from the Whelen penetrated a good 30” of wildebeest, including both shoulders, in a perfectly straight line at his widest point.  I was thoroughly impressed with the rifle’s performance on such a big, tough old bull.  Blue wildebeest are known for toughness, and I knew this was a hundred yard shot I definitely did not want to screw up.  He was perfectly dead no more than 50 yards from where he was hit.  I was happy I had decided to take this enormous, powerfully built, impressive animal.  He was definitely an oldster, his incisors worn down almost to the gums.  I used to think of a wildebeest as an unsightly creature appearing to be made of spare parts.  Indeed, “wildebeest” is Afrikaans for “wild ox,” and they look more bovine than antelope.  Up close, however, they’re majestic and beautiful in their way.  They call the blue wildebeest the “poor man’s buffalo,” and in a very real sense this old boy, with his mane and vivid markings, will be similarly striking as a shoulder mount.  

That evening dad and Jim went out with Hanno and Petrus, and Jim got the first Kudu bull of the group just before dark.  I hadn’t even seen a kudu yet, so was elated to finally see one in camp.  Seeing Jim’s beautiful bull doubled my ardor for one.  Much as I love our elk and mule deer, I can’t imagine an animal anywhere more beautiful than a kudu.  They almost look like a made-up, mythical creature.  Not only are they enormous, with big bulls easily exceeding 500 pounds, but they look even more so because they’re surprisingly tall.  They’re indescribably graceful and athletic, and can jump an eight-foot fence seemingly without effort.  Females are considerably smaller, hornless, and much browner in color, more closely resembling exotic deer than antelope.

Kudu also, I would learn, can be quite difficult to hunt.  They keep mostly to the thickets, where they blend in amazingly.  They’re smart and wary, and their sharp eyes and 12-inch directional ears are stunningly acute.  They’re often referred to by experienced hunters as “the grey ghost,” and it’s an apt description.

Jim got the first kudu of the safari.  Unfortunately it happened just before dark, giving us less than ideal conditions for photography in the field.

First kudu – Jim’s – being offloaded into the skinning shed. 

Kudu blend in.  Only younger bulls like these two bozos are relatively easy to photograph. 

Nyala, relatives of kudu and other spiral-horned antelope, also like to keep to the thickets where they’re harder to spot.

A salt lick brought out this rare sight—both male and female kudu in the open.  Females are much smaller and have less vivid markings (and no horns, of course).

Hunting, Day 3

My kudu finally showed himself the morning of Day 3, and it was a story!  Jim, Shaun, Petrus, another Sotho tracker and myself hopped over to an adjoining ranch reputed to hold big bulls.  We saw several as we made our rounds of this new territory, and all disappeared briskly as big kudu most often do.  At length, Petrus’ very skilled eyes picked up a huge, old bull about a hundred yards off.  He was frozen, thinking himself hidden, but I knew that wouldn’t last.  I quickly bore down on him and . . . CLICK!  A misfire!  In all my years of hunting and target shooting, never has a centerfire rifle misfired on me.  Absolutely unbelievable!  I cycled the action, amazed he was still standing there, and . . . CLICK!  Another!  Oaths and expletives were whisper-shouted, and I whisper-hollered to Jim (standing next to me, attempting to videotape the unfolding bit of slapstick) to hand me his blankety-blanking rifle, STAT!  He did, and the instant the crosshairs found their mark, the big 300 bucked.  Off he went.  One of the dogs found him, fully expired, a hundred and fifty or so yards from where he was hit—another heart/lung shot.  Back at camp, every PH assured me that kudu NEVER stand still that long, and I believed them.  He was a great old bull, with quite unusually wide and thick horns.  He had a curious third horn on the center of his snout just below his eyes—something none of the PHs had seen before.  I couldn’t have been happier.  On inspection, it turned out that my fifty-something-year-old rifle had accumulated some grit in the firing pin raceway inside the bolt.  This was obstructing the striker enough that it was impacting the primers too lightly.  A cleaning solved the problem.

Jim, me, Jim’s rifle, and one unique beauty of a monstrous bull!  Note the odd, horny growth between the eyes.

Dad got a nice warthog boar that morning, slightly smaller than mine though at least properly hit and cleanly killed.  That evening, hunting with Jim, Brian, Danie and myself, he took a very nice gemsbok bull with frayed horn tips, indicating that he’d been fighting recently.

The same evening, Brian took a beautiful kudu from a blind on a neighboring ranch.

Hunting, Day 4 – Shelanti Game Ranch

I took the fourth day off from hunting, opting to ride around with the group and take photographs as I assessed whether or not the bank account could withstand further wanton acts of trophy-taking.  One of the downfalls, I suppose, of early success on a 7-day safari.  It turned out I had picked the right day to put on my photographer hat, as we visited the sublime Shelanti Game Ranch owned by Bardina van Rensburg’s parents.  There we saw roan, sable, vast herds of impala, waterbuck, baboons, amazing kudu bulls, and great multitudes of warthogs.  Dad had several abortive attempts at kudu and impala before finally drilling an extremely nice impala ram—one of the most beautiful animals to be had.  Despite the profusion of warthogs, the big boars were stubbornly smart and skittish, so Brian and Jim ended up taking two nice sows (both very cleanly shot and dead where they were hit).  We came across several massive piles of rhino and elephant dung, along with some trees pushed over by elephants.  No pachyderms to go with these, however.  The day would have been perfect had camera troubles not caused me to botch several shots I’m certain would have been excellent, though on the whole I can hardly complain.

Jim, Brian and their sows.  There was a good deal of bickering over whose was cuter.

Dad’s fine impala ram.   

Some Shelanti scenery:

Glassing for wildlife from Pride Rock.

Danie explaining how to tell a male tortoise from a female (males smoke cigars, females read Cosmo—seems obvious enough).

Hunting, Day 5 – The Search for Burt and Ernie

By this point dad had also experienced repeat encounters with the two hartebeest bulls we’d taken to calling Burt and Ernie, and decided after a while that perhaps he’d like to take one of these to add something different to the growing collection of trophies.  We discussed strategy around the campfire, and apparently word reached Burt and Ernie.  Whereas they’d been relatively incautious the first several times we’d run across them, they were never running less than 40 knots the few times we were able to locate them the following day.  The entire day was spent in pursuit, with no success.

Hunting, Day 6

The next morning we set out to continue tracking the hartebeests as though they were Osama (recently deceased).  Plans changed abruptly when we came upon a bachelor herd of three HUGE wildebeest bulls we hadn’t spotted in the previous days.  All of these were well-past trophy quality and larger, at least in terms of head gear, than either of the two taken by Brian and myself.  Dad decided these were too good to pass up, and promptly dumped one with a brisket-on shot.  Not surprisingly, the 154-grain Hornady Interbond did not exit the animal, but it definitely did its job.  He ran no more than a few dozen yards, and the bullet was later recovered by one of the skinners (as was the one from dad’s gemsbok).  Jim and Petrus showed up shortly after we reached dad’s bull and, knowing Jim also wanted a good wildebeest, we directed them to where the other two had run.  It was a matter of minutes before we heard Jim’s cannon speak from 3 or 400 yards away.  It happened that he also ended up taking a front-on shot, this one nose-diving the big bull into the dirt and putting his lights out more or less instantaneously.  The 180-grain Swift Scirocco was also recovered from this bull, and there could be no doubt about its performance.  Thus we had two monstrous bulls down by about 7:30 a. m.  Not a bad morning’s work!

Sunrise over the bushveld, Day 6.

 Megabull #1:  Dad’s.

Megabull #2:  Jimbo's

We brought the two big boys together for some group shots, this one with Hanno goofing around in the middle. 

The PH and tracking staff.  L to R:  Shaun, Steven, Danie (holding Sesse), Johannes, Hanno (holding Yster), Petrus.

The remainder of the day was spent unsuccessfully pursuing Burt and Ernie, along with a good kudu bull we’d spotted shortly after the first of the morning’s wildebeest went down—this one for dad.  I had also mentioned to Hanno that I might be interested in a blesbuck, even though this would exceed the limit I’d set for myself.  What can I say—idle hands, particularly with a rifle, are the devil’s playthings, and when the hell would I be in Africa again?  Blesbuck are a very striking animal, and I’d been watching them with growing interest for the past few days.  They bear a remarkable resemblance to our pronghorn antelope, partly in their appearance, but mostly in their behavior.  Like pronghorn, they’re very alert, sharp-eyed and fleet of foot.  They’re of similar size and build, and have the same tendency to keep a great deal of open ground between themselves and whatever might be attempting to stalk them.  Hanno and I set out across a large tract of grassland where we’d previously been spotting blesbuck with good regularity.  After we’d covered several hundred yards using widely spaced acacia for cover as best we could, Hanno singled out an individual ram he’d identified as a good one.  By the time we’d gotten to within 200 yards of him, he was clearly aware of us.  Hanno asked if I wanted to try to stalk closer, but I didn’t think he’d give us that chance.  I said I’d take him from there, so Hanno set up the shooting sticks.  I aimed a bit high, overestimating the drop at that range from the still unfamiliar rifle, and ended up spining him.  The hit from the big bullet flattened him instantly, however, and he was done.  As Hanno and I approached the downed blesbuck . . . Burt and Ernie took off about 50 yards from where he lay.  It was the last time I’d see them.  The blesbuck was a very nice specimen, with horns measuring 17 inches.

Hunting, Day 7 – Robopig

Our seventh and final day of hunting may actually have been the most memorable.  Only dad was still hunting, and only half-heartedly, for a kudu bull.  So we had but one rifle in the truck—dad’s cockeyed southpaw Browning A-Bolt 7mm.  We started the day on a ranch some distance from Hanno’s place that we hadn’t visited before.  It was loaded with ostrich, warthogs, baboons and some sort of smaller monkey, and nyala.  We were mostly just sightseeing and taking photos.  Rather unexpectedly, we came upon a mixed group of warthogs containing mostly sows and piglets, but also the most monstrous boar we’d seen to date.  This bruiser was an order of magnitude larger than any creature around it.  We stopped the Cruiser, and Brian said, “Is anybody going to shoot that thing?”  After about a nanosecond with no answer, he said, “Well hell, I am!”  Whereupon he seized dad’s rifle and immediately gut shot the boar from about 60 yards.  Brian’s a good shot, and in his defense there were a bush and several piglets clustered around the boar.  He had to thread the needle through several objects he needed to avoid hitting.  To top things off, he had a bad angle for the shot, and very little time to execute it before the big pig would high-tail it out of there at the blazing warthog speed we’d all become accustomed to.  They’re a hellfire fast animal, and amazingly difficult to hit when on the move.

The chase was on.  Fortunately we had Danie and Petrus with us, who are both excellent trackers.  Unfortunately, this old boy was doggedly determined to cling to life.  All 8 of us (those previously mentioned, plus Shaun and another fellow named Steffan) started the track, getting on blood and spoor relatively quickly.  After about a mile, we came upon the boar in a clearing, lying on his side with a large proportion of his guts spilling out of a huge exit wound and looking like he’d more or less had it.  Wrong!  He was off like a shot when he detected our approach, and at that point Danie requested that 5 of us hang back to avoid the possibility of pushing him harder and farther than was necessary.  We recovered the vehicle, and Brian proceeded with Danie and Petrus.  After another hour had passed, we heard a distant shot.  Then another.  At that point, dad informed the rest of us that Brian had only one more round left in the rifle.  In our haste to go after the pig, none of us thought to grab extra ammunition.  Perhaps another half minute of waiting and wondering, then a third rifle report.  We exchanged concerned looks, knowing how screwed they’d be if additional shots were needed.  Shaun decided to try to raise Danie on the cell phone, and when he did, we could all plainly hear on the speakerphone that he was out of breath and had adrenaline bursting from every pore.  We would soon learn why.  After several false starts trying to locate the three hunters, we finally tracked them down some 2 miles from where the drama had all begun.  The hog, a massive boar with 12” tusks measuring 15” tip-to-tip, lay in the road with more holes in him than Barack Obama’s background story. 

It turned out the first shot we’d heard—from Brian—was a hail Mary (and a miss) when they first came upon the hog at a brisk run.  As they chased him into a bramble thicket, Danie sensed that things could get dicey and asked Brian to hand over the rifle (it never looks good on a PH’s resume when a client gets mauled).  When they regained contact with the boar, he decided he wasn’t going without a fight, and charged Danie, who quickly started running backward.  He tripped over some boulders and fired as he was in the process of falling.  The bullet, at a range of FOUR FEET, entered the pig’s port ear flap and exited just behind his starboard shoulder.  The pig STILL ran a furlong or so past Danie before piling up, apparently having finally given up the ghost.  The third shot was simply to be certain Robopig would not be getting up again.  All told, they tracked this otherworldly tough old boar for two hours over at least two miles, the last bit of it up one side of a steep, rocky hill and down the other.  All the while he was leaking astonishing amounts of blood and, toward the end, guts.  If there’s a tougher animal anywhere on this blue orb, somebody’s going to have a challenge proving it to me.

Leaking out of a half dozen holes.

Danie with the pig who would have happily reduced him to bloody chunks, grasping the borrowed rifle that kept it from happening.

Danie, Brian and Petrus, who was also instrumental in tracking Robopig.

That evening, from the same blind where Brian had taken his kudu on Day 3, dad ended up getting the finest kudu of the group, proving that good things come to those who wait.

Dad’s amazing trophy kudu.  The way to tell a good bull in the field is by his horns; they will have started into a third curl, and the tips will be facing forward.  This bull’s horns have perfect symmetry and excellent height, measuring 52”.

Day 8 – Back to Shelanti, and the Elephant Culling

The following day we were all finished hunting—for real this time.  Jim and Hanno took off first thing in the morning for Shelanti to scout for an elephant for a wealthy French client.  The rest of us stayed on base all morning for a little R&R, then proceeded there ourselves to do more sightseeing and photography.  We happened upon Hanno, Jim, the Frenchman and his considerable entourage as we were headed back to Pride Rock, the wonderful lookout point we’d visited the last time.  Our cooler full of beer and jug of whiskey (and frustration with the morning’s elephant tracking) was all it took to convince Jim to switch to our vehicle.  He described the effort to obtain an elephant for the old gentleman.  Apparently there’d been a few hairy close-encounters with the outraged matriarch of the herd, and the client’s entourage kept giving him conflicting instructions on what to do.  After a few of these incidents, Jim was a little on edge.  Something about having an indecisive hunter going after multiple tons of pissed-off pachyderm that can knock over any tree you might attempt to hide behind, I suppose.  Jim also had no weapon, which had to be a bit unnerving.

We proceeded to Pride Rock, where we spent a considerable time glassing for wildlife and taking photos (and drinking).  The elephant group was the only hunting party on Shelanti that day.  An hour or more after we’d parted with Hanno and the others, we heard two distant reports from what only could have been the Frenchman’s .375 H&H.  After triangulating the approximate location of the shots, we headed off in that direction.  Danie finally raised Hanno by cell phone, who confirmed that they had a mature cow down and directed us to their location.  We hiked in several hundred yards from the nearest road to where she lay.  I don’t like seeing elephants killed, and went in motivated by what only could have been morbid curiosity.  I took a few pictures, but won’t be posting them.  This was a culling operation, and I understood why it was necessary.  Each elephant requires about 2000 acres of habitat in order to avoid causing serious ecological damage, so even a place as large as Shelanti can only support so many.  They consume staggering quantities of vegetation, ripping limbs and tearing bark off trees (or simply knocking them over) as they feed.  The Frenchman, it should be said, was a competent rifleman, delivering a perfectly placed frontal brain shot that killed the old girl instantly.  The second shot had been unneeded “insurance” once she was down.  Being in Africa and a student of the great hunts and hunters of past eras, I don’t imagine I could easily have forced myself to turn away from an opportunity to bear witness to such a spectacle.  And if an animal needs to be culled, it might as well be by a paying client whose substantial trophy fee will benefit big game management.  Still, it was more of a somber occasion for me than anything, and I wasn’t capable of joining in the hunting party’s celebratory mood.  These are simply my personal feelings on elephants in particular; I’m not judging other hunters.

Next-to-last day in South Africa, visiting a colossal baobab tree.  The trunk is at least 40’ in diameter.

After the baobab we went to Buffelsdrift (Buffalo Creek) and got drankwinkeled.

The haul – Our final morning at the ranch.  Skulls have been skinned and salted to prepare them for the taxidermist.

This photo clearly shows how much taller the horns are on dad’s kudu compared to the others.  Brian’s warthog is clearly in a class all its own.

Are African Animals Tougher?

Having now personally witnessed or received detailed information on the circumstances of the taking of 20 trophy animals by our party over the course of seven days, I can say with some confidence that they are not—with the obvious exception of warthogs.  What these animals are, for the most part, is bigger than what we’re used to.  North Americans, either consciously or subconsciously, use our half dozen species of deer as our benchmark for toughness.  It’s the big game animal we hunt most frequently, and are most familiar with.  Deer just aren’t all that tough.  Of the scores I’ve either shot or seen shot, most were dead before hitting the ground, or at most took no more than a few steps even when gut shot.  The two deer-sized species we took in Africa—impala and blesbuck—did likewise.  African antelope are made of flesh and blood like similar animals everywhere else.  If hit squarely in the vitals, they’ll go down with reasonable promptness.  Most of the bigger animals we shot ran some distance, but this is normal.  Every elk I’ve ever seen killed has also done this—some for amazing distances.  Even warthogs are easy to kill if hit right; they’re just a serious problem if hit poorly. 

The bottom line is that a hunter owes it to whatever animal he’s hunting to bring enough gun to the party.  All of us did so, and I’m glad of it.  In retrospect, I’m especially happy I didn’t bring my 6.5 Swede.  It’s a great little rifle, but would have required a precision of shot placement that can’t always be guaranteed in the field.  You can’t kill an animal “too” dead, and hunters should use the most powerful weapon they’re able to fire confidently and accurately.  Hunters who are unusually recoil-shy should practice shooting until they become less so.  I couldn’t imagine going after these animals with anything less than a .308 or a .270 Winchester.  A 30-06 would be even better.  Most reasonably experienced hunters should be able to handle rifles in this power range.  I’m also a believer in well-constructed, premium bullets.  All of us used varying forms of these on this trip, and all performed as advertised.  For the hunt of a lifetime, why leave anything to chance if you have some control over it?

I can’t promise I’ll never go back, but I’m happy to be checking this one off my bucket list!

The cost?  It’s not insubstantial, but it’s a good value for the money.  I’ve known guys to put as much into a hunt for a single bull elk as I’ve got into five animals, taxidermy included!  And you simply can’t have hunting of this quality on the cheap.  It’s costly to maintain these ranches and herds of big game.  I definitely felt we got our money’s worth. 

A “Kudu X-ing” sign—something you don’t see every day (unless you’re in Limpopo Province).

Sighting in, first morning

First visit to Shelanti

Waterbuck bulls getting ready to scrap

Rhino dung.  Yes, they go wherever they want to.

Hanno's compound

Jim waiting for me to join him in a blind next to a water hole.  We all agreed that hunting from blinds is a complete drag.

Jim's kudu, my kudu, my wildebeest in the salt

A dung beetle plies its trade.  Interesting career choice.

Two nice impala rams

Wildebeest, with a rare "golden" wildebeest on the left

African hornbill

Bardina's parents' place at Shelanti

A young nyala bull, with a cow and calf

Perfect hat burn

Tsessebe

Blesbuck

Male and 3 female ostrich with young

Giant Cape Eland and a gemsbok.  Eland are the largest antelope species in the world, often exceeding a ton.  Yet they can jump an 8-foot fence.  

Gemsbok (also called oryx)

We frequently came across these 2 giraffe bulls on Hanno's place.  They always looked as though they were running in slow motion, until one noticed how much ground they would cover.

Bardina van Rensburg and Hanno Jr., age 1.5 weeks

Johannes and Petrus

The chef made us a meat pie to commemmorate a special occasion.

The vastness of the bushveld

Creepy crawlies are on a different scale in Africa.  Here's a millipede next to my size 12--and I saw several larger than this one.

At Pride Rock

Giraffes from Pride Rock, several thousand yards away

A kudu cow and nyala bull, with an impala ram in the background

154-grain Hornady Interbond bullets recovered from dad's wildebeest (L) and gemsbok (R)

The 180-grain Swift Scirocco recovered from Jim's wildebeest.  Again, the bonded-core bullet performed as advertised, retaining most of its weight while expanding well and penetrating deeply.

Jim and Hanno, immediately after the taking of the two big wildebeest bulls.  Being hunters, they're already telling lies about events that just occurred, and which they both witnessed.