Bwana Dave | Dangerous Game

The bushes whipped back like storm lashings in a hurricane, the behemoth blasted by, a Jurassic Park throwback. Blonde, one hundred thirty pounds (my wife not the beast) armed with little more than a kid’s toy versus three tons of solid attitude. What are we doing? There’s no experience in the world offering the same intensity for anything approaching the cost. Here was my little 5’ 2” wife, armed with only a one shot dart gun, within fifteen feet of an extremely belligerent white rhino. He sailed past, a grey battle cruiser coursing through an ocean of tan grass. His head down, his horned head swaying from side to side, enraged, seeking to vent.

This isn’t the zoo, and this guy dwarfs his captive cousins. Trust me, he is anything other than placid: his beady red rim eyes radiates murder as he searches for a victim. Port Elizabeth, Eastern Cape, South Africa; what a change from the Limpopo bush most are familiar with, the crystal blue Indian Ocean in the distance, rolling hills of high grass in the foreground. So different than any of our experiences in Africa. The huge rhinoceroses seek the clefts and rifts, full of brush to lay up for the day. Several trackers on horseback searched for half a day to find this monster. We can see him partially hidden in the distant brush. Slow is the key, walking on the rims of your feet to muffle your steps. The first half of the stalk was over an hour; a step, maybe two steps at a time. Stop, pause – freeze, till the monster lowers his head again to graze. Step, step – freeze – he looks up, his ears twitch, he lifts his nose to the air – testing. This is where you start praying. Your halfway there still in open plain, a small raisin bush between you and the battle cruiser…. “please don’t let the wind shift”. The wind, a hopeful ally during the summer, turns into a capricious winter mischief maker, letting you stalk up on your prey, then shifting at the last moment with malicious glee. Your quarry disappearing in half a blink of an eye. In this case, our prey, three tons of muscle and horn, won’t disappear, he’ll come straight for us. Thirty minutes more, fifteen yards closer…. Finally she works her way to the shade of the raisin bush. The rhino just on the other side – a new problem, the fragile pneumatic dart gun won’t blast through the shrub, it has to be a completely clear shot. Leann shifts ever so slowly to the right, freezes as the beast goes rigid, ears twitching, nose testing the air. It clearly knows something is amiss… glaring through myopic beady eyes, he, again, cautiously lowers his head to graze, Leann slips the extra two feet over, now there’s an unobstructed shot between the branches. He hears the grass crumpling underfoot and snaps alert, tenses for a charge, the gun fires, the fluorescent orange dart slams into the beasts’ side. He surges off, like an Abrams tank, out the chute and heading for Iraq. It is amazing how fast these monsters can clip along.

Unfortunately, he keeps running; the muscle relaxant noticeably failing to kick in. We watch him run miles across the plains until he’s a dot moving on the horizon. We fear to follow lest he charge when we reach open ground. Slamming into his tough hide obliquely, the needle of the dart crimps as it slants past it’s axis. No slow juice for the big guy: now, highly irritated, more wary, and far more deadly. Ratcheting up exponentially, the danger is now tangible. We pass the time for an hour, letting him settle nervously back into his routine. Following him in the far distance, the scouts on horseback continue tracking him. Peter can still see him in the far distance (no question, eyes like an eagle, that one – truly a natural born hunter); I can’t see him at all.

Waiting, of course, gives time for reflection. The trip has been marvelous so far, the house and our quarters luxurious. On arriving we found aperitifs, chocolates, flowers on our bed, and a Tam Farms hunting cap, personally monogrammed with our names…. what a distinctive touch. After the flight down and hour drive, it was a wonderful surprise. Peter Tam, young for a professional hunter, gives every attention to detail. We were able to relax before surging off on this new extreme adventure.

Back in the present, snapping alert, we finally start to move, the beast surely is grazing by now. We travel about ten miles via the twisting and turning contour of the land, searching. He is more in the open this time, and far more alert. A mile away or so, we park the truck, and cautiously while bent over start stalking in. At a hundred yards, we stop, only Leann and Peter go forward. On this stalk it’s only half a step at a time, they’re very exposed. Slowly…more slowly…. stalking, now, takes far longer, two hours pass and they’re only thirty yards closer. The rhino is snorting and still angry, constantly testing the wind, fidgeting, turning this way and that, as if the very wind is his enemy. Closer, I am sitting down with a powerful lens – 500 millimeters worth – the snap of the camera so loud that it reverberates across the plain even though they’re over 100 yards away. Peter signals me to quit. Leann moves closer, millimeter by millimeter they scrunch ever so slowly down to the ground, then inching forward again. They’re crawling now – excruciatingly slow. It takes ages for them to cross the next 5 yards. Leann slowly rises, from their angle the rhino is behind a ledge and some bushes. I can see she is stiff and in pain from the long slow crawl. Slowly, painfully she rises, slowly bringing the gun to her shoulder, stopping at each fraction of movement. It’s a slow process, in my head I’m, screaming “just shoot”! The beast starts to move and Leann fires at 30 yards – the very limit of the air gun. The dart slams within 5 inches of the last one, really incredible shooting. He charges off, quarters his head side to side looking for someone to impale. I’m snapping some great footage, twitch… twitch.. I realize in horror his ears have picked me up, and he’s coming my way. “A bush… a bush…. you’re a bush… “ he stampedes by – I tell myself as I freeze, “you’re a bush… you’re a bush”. I sense looking him straight in the eye would be the end. I shy my eyes away, motionless, watching him loop around through peripheral vision. He heads on past, close enough for worry. I can tangibly smell my fear, and the ground literally shakes as he gallops by.

He starts slowing down, the slow juice kicking in. Peter in a profound display of bravery, walks toward the slowed but still moving rhino, keeping us well back. The rhino is prancing. His muscles fighting the relaxant, lifting trunk like legs in a slow high step, trying to break free of the chemical. His eyes are on Peter, death radiates from every quivering muscle. The rhino wants to tear and rend, slowed by the juice, there’s no question regarding his intent if he can break free of his chemical bonds. Peter, is worried for the rhino, if he falls now, it will be 6000 pounds crashing down on very sharp rocks. Peter slaps the lethargic rhino’s horn, enraged, the beast struggles a few steps forward. Peter grabs the horn, I’m thinking this is beyond crazy, and am dazed with amazement. Thinking back to Peter loading the dart’s syringe – personally I would never trust a bottle of anything in Africa with my life. Peter is absolutely fearless, the behemoth takes a few more steps past the sharp rocks and settles slowly to the ground, alert but temporarily immobilized. It’s “hoorays” all around, the picture taking, the back slapping, then we administer the antidote. I risk Peter’s anger staying longer than I should taking pictures as he wakes up and starts our way, groggy but extremely annoyed.

What a rush. Back “home” (because that is how we think of it), at the veranda, we celebrate, beers passed around, chased by champagne. What a high. Leann shot well, and is on cloud nine – justifiably. Her first big 5 taken – and more importantly taken extremely well. Toasting, the champagne both crisp and cold, Irvin asks “How does it feel, how do you describe it”… Leann paused, perplexed… “Unlike anything I have ever done…. So intense, an incredible rush…” I’m thinking what a feeling to face the beast – certain death if things go amiss – with a toy in your hand…absolutely exhilarating. We noticed a number of people we hadn’t seen before clustered around, sharing Leann’s triumph, we were introduced to Peter’s grandparents. Truly gracious wonderful people. Also milling around were various neighbors and business associates… we’re going to have a party. The sunset razors across the hills in a flash fire of color; magentas, crimson’s and purple haze, as the wind picked up. Night falls swiftly as it always does in Africa, a black velvet curtain dropping quickly across the sky. The torches around the garden lit, logs in several large fire pits – the boma, fired up casting dancing shadows across the dusk. Leann was asked to look at something and she disappeared around the corner, a sense of expectation in the air.

A brash storm of singing and drums breach the evenings calm. The intensity of the rhino hunt in it’s own unique way is just beginning. Leann’s palanquin is shouldered into the air and paraded out by six athletic Africans in native costumes. Dancers, singers and drummers marched out, clapping, jumping, twisting in the air, while singing “The Rhino Sleeps Tonight” to the Disney melody. What a tremendous event, everyone is applauding. Leann dazed, is swept along as the incredible day flows into an increasingly incredible night. The guests, all invited in attendance to honor Leann, the huntress, applaud vigorously. This wasn’t some cheap tourist entertainment, this was the real deal; friends, neighbors, and family all sharing in the celebration. The Africans begin to dance and sing in honor of Leann’s accomplishment. Five foot two, one hundred and thirty pounds, taking down one of the most dangerous animals on earth, and certainly one of the largest. The performance was dazzling, primitive, vibrant, and more than anything else stirring to the soul. The drumbeat is intoxicating, although you don’t understand any of the Xhosa words, the meaning, and its’ power washes through your body: surprisingly, you have an intuitive understanding of the theme. Leann is mesmerized. The adulation is real, unfeigned. The singing goes on and on. Finally they pull Leann up to dance, and she is swept away with wild abandon to the joy of the Africans. The evening is complete…. Except for dinner.

The evening repast is a friendly semi formal affair, more one of those intimate Thanksgiving dinners than a vacation meal, amongst friends and family. The meal was wonderful, a tapestry of luxurious dining. A true feast, with the wonderful wines of South Africa slipping across our palate. Game, venison, beef, lamb all cross the table. Unquestionably it isn’t a culinary orgy for light weights. The wine flows, more congratulatory speeches. Then Leann is presented a bottle of private vintage wine, the label – her and her Rhino, now friends of the most unusual sort, for posterity (or at least till we drink the wine).

The fear of death, the uncertainty of life, combined with the extreme intense emotions of doing something few would attempt, adrenaline pumping in each heart beat; it’s a catalyst of life. The joy of celebrations – old Africa – before it became modern, combined with the graciousness of modern nobility, among our new friends. A feast and celebration to be remembered always – not withstanding the defining moments of today’s adventures. The sheer, razor edge bravery of Peter Tam, facing a rhino unarmed was unforgettable, an exceptional life memory etched into one’s mind like a great scene from a legendary John Wayne movie. Leann’s hunt was an event of a lifetime crammed into the moment of a day. Now months later the memories are as crisp and clear is if we hunted yesterday – on reflection perhaps not. The memories, truly life altering, seem mere hours old. Memories rich with all the sensations, emotions and elation of an accomplishment few have dared attempt. Leann, my huntress, faced the beast and prevailed.

Tam Safaris

It started as a brief 3 day “add on” to the end of our trip, a chance to check out some new territory. It morphed into much more. Tam Farms is situated in the rolling grasslands of the Eastern Cape – God’s country. It is a joy to watch the multitudinous springbuck frolicking in the grassy hills. Tam Farms also boast having the difficult to find bontebuck, free roaming lions, elusive mountain rheebok as well as blesbuck (black, common, yellow), gargantuan gemsbok, wild ostrich, lechwe and of course white rhino. His are some of the largest in private hands and he as close to twenty on his property, massive and impressive all. Leann’s rhino scored an SCI 88, in the gold. Irvin Tam has devoted considerable resources to saving South Africa’s endangered species. He has several hard to find exotics, particularly one of the few herds of Pere David Deer in Africa. A hunter stays at Irvin’s home and dines with his family. Henrietta, creates (cooks is far too plebian a word), an incredible table, feast after feast. Wonderful sustenance, food and drink is available all the day long. The quarters are beyond comfortable, and the entire experience well worth the trip down to the startling scenic Port Elizabeth.

This article is dedicated to Austin Sefton of Los Angeles an aspiring hunter, who one day will get to live his dream.

FINIS

Contact Information: Peter Tam, Tam Safaris

Phone 27 48 881 1053 Cell 27 82 652 6610 tamfarms@intekom.co.za

5 High St.

Cradock

5880

Republic of South Africa

(Or Otherwise Known As The One That Almost Got Away)

The difference between life and death is sometimes infinitesimal; a mere flicker of a heartbeat. I took the shot and knew it was going to be bad.

Bone weary, bouncing down the dusty red road paralleling the Matlabas River, the frigid evening air blasted us while sitting in our “popsicle seat”. We were truly freezing our butts off. The end of another cold July winter day in South Africa. I was booked, beat, and done in… it was over for the day, everything ached or hurt. I was levering the drop block of my Sharps, ejecting the shell. My dazed exhaustion was shattered by the cry “Damn Big Nyala!” booming from the front cab. Looking up, my eyes teared in the cold cutting wind. A huge buck – there – silhouetted against the dying sun reflecting off the river. Jumping down, trying to move to get the shot, I snapped my long-barreled Sharps buffalo gun up, free-handing it, just as the bull leapt forward. Pulling the trigger, that evil little voice hiding in every hunter’s head whispered, “What the hell have you done?!”

The nyala staggered, stumbled, loosing its’ balance. Smug, I thought, “hah! It’s going down”. It ought to with 400 grains of Barnes best slamming through a .458 diameter hole now perforating parts unknown. It had knocked down far bigger, meaner, and tougher. Unfortunately my Nyala hadn’t read the same ballistics book, he caught himself, got his hooves under him, then fled the field heading towards heavy brush. My PH Marius Moolman shouted: “Hit hard! Find it quick.” Now the recriminations, “Oh David. What have you done? What have you done?”, Leann my huntress mate, and our second PH, Robie piled out of the truck. Myself?, I felt like banging my head against the truck. A nyala – the most expensive species on the concession, most definitely was not in our budget, (try saving money when the whole family of avid hunters goes to Africa!) And believe me, as an accountant, I knew I was already way over.

It had already been an exceptional day. Leann had taken a steenbok at a very respectable distance; a 25-inch impala with exceptionally heavy horn mass; and an awesome warthog, which had been surprisingly elusive. My son had, that same day, taken a blue wildebeest and red hartebeest. The cost was racking up.

I cast a worried eye towards the descending dusk, this just couldn’t be good. The leaden murk of the African night began settling in by the time we started the stalk. Finding him seemed unlikely; even worse, as I replayed the shot, I had miscalculated his leap and wounded him – a raking shot, not instantly fatal. Leann was visibly nervous as we began tracking, more about loosing a wounded animal than out of fear of the darkening bush. My 400-grain Barnes semi spitzer soft point expands so it is like a beer can being crammed through the body, creating massive damage, but not great phenomenal penetration longitudinally.

Luckily, we saw the nyala 50 yards across the soggy field in a deep copse of scrub trees, his head barely silhouetted against the dying light. “Well done, David. His head’s down.” We moved forward, and Marius warned “Careful, it’s the dead ones that kill you.”

I circled around to the left, just in case he bolted so I could get off another shot. Word of caution, Always follow the guide so you don’t get people in crossfire, my second mistake of the evening. Marius led with his .30-06, Leann followed, Robie behind. “There he is!” Marius shouted, we fired an insurance shot and begin to close. Marius and Leann moved up quickly; I paralleled outside the bushes, relaxed, gun down. Things were ending up okay after all.

Its’ head was down, horns in the dirt. Dead as a nail – completely and totally lifeless – still as death; and all the other metaphors one wants to pile on. When Marius and Leann got to within three feet – maybe less – the bull exploded to life, surging up, his needle-sharp horns down in a dead out eviscerating charge.

It was happening so fast that Marius couldn’t even get his gun to his shoulder. Leann – always fearless to the point of recklessness – stood her ground side-by-side with the PH. From my side view, I immediately saw the danger – someone was fixing to get gutted. I watched helpless as life suddenly slowed down, frame by frame, one at a time as I watched Leann braving the charge with just a flashlight in her hand. Then Robie’s massive hand slowly reaching for her, grabbing her shoulder… then Leann in the air, slowly drifting backwards… Robie thrusting his arms out to each side, throwing his body between Leann and the nyala … forcing her back … Leann not turning to run. Then Marius fired from the hip, John Wayne style.

The nyala, the bullet grazing its ear then penetrating its shoulder, turned and leaped back at the last microsecond, twisting away, and charged through the thicket towards the river road.

In a blink of an eye, it was over: A charge, a shot, and the nyala disappeared. Lost.

Then it hit me: my wife had almost died. Not a campfire story, but real life. She, our guides and friends had almost been killed. That is Africa, where a simple plains game hunt can turned deadly in a heartbeat. Just inches off and someone could have gone down with horrible injuries. I mean the kind of wounds, when your three hours away from a hospital, you die from – painfully. This is the real Africa, with death always a split-second away.

Although I have faced death before, it was my wife’s almost dying from my bad shot that hit me hard: The acid-sick feeling from adrenalin surge, the metallic coppery taste in your mouth, the rifle slipping in your sweating palms, the little wobble in the knees.

Taking a breath, we were off again through a deep velvet night and brilliant stars, but more carefully this time. Near death experiences have a way of doing that. Tramping through the grass looking for my “dead” nyala, I thought of Marius, Hemingway’s ideal of “Grace under pressure.”

Trudging through the waist-high grass and brambles, I realized the nyala was lost. Additional trackers were called in, but they feared the roaming leopard. A deadly puff adder had been killed only hours earlier. By the river, no blood signs. We searched the road while Marius continued alone along the river.

After long hours of searching Marius called out. He’d found the dead buck at the river’s edge, partially in the water. The trackers pulled him from the river. My trophy saved, I helped, and we drug him the 80 yards to the road. It was just too much to be left to the trackers, everyone helped out by rotating. It was exhausting.

A last-minute, poorly placed shot had almost cost much more than a lost trophy. The time it takes for something to go terribly wrong in Africa, a heart beat.

Today, my nyala represents not only its fine 29 inch horns, but also the lessons learned that fateful night. Courage can be quiet and calm, not the gin hazed campfire bravado, but the real kind that defines a hunter. Seeing that animal from the far side of death burst back to life will always make me recall how time can run like slow molasses, it trickles along a frame at a time. Life and death balanced by the most tenuous thread, and you watch, a helpless voyeur, both drawn and repelled by the drama that is Africa.

Manzi Reserve, South Africa

The spectacular 13,000-acre Manzi River reserve is approximately 30 miles west of Thabazimbi in the Limpopo province. Now strictly a bow hunters paradise – no guns! Its terrain varies from riverine forest, flats, heavy bush, and even a lake with marshlands. The hunting reserve is located on one of the few rivers in the arid Limpopo, the Matblas. The luxurious lodge overlooks a waterfall; and there are spectacular evening boat rides. All animals taken in this two-week hunt made Exotic Wildlife Association top five for the year – most number one in their class. Owners Danie and Janine Van Jaarsveld, www.africabowhunt.com and PHs Marius Moolman and Robie Mentz all do a good job. On a very reasonable budget, this was one of the greatest experiences in our lives.

The Dream Gun.

I was able to combine my dream hunt with my dream rifle: the legendary hunting firearm from the American Old West, a Sharps Buffalo gun. I used an 1874 C. Sharps Buffalo Rifle, in the antiquated 45-90 caliber, with a tapered octagon 34-inch barrel and a Creedmore Vernier mid-range sight, including on a steenbok at 120 meters with just the neck and head showing above the bushes.

Manufactured by the American C. Sharps Company in Montana, my Deluxe Bridgeport model has German silver inlay, cheek comb as well as burled wood. Talk about a bush buster, the 45-90 grinds through brush like a chain saw; never a deflection – made to order for the bushveld. Not all loads work well in the 45-90. I used a 400-grain, soft nose, Barnes semi spitzer, Winchester match magnum primers, and IMR 4064 at 55 grains (never use this load on anything but a C. Sharps). This load puts bullet after bullet through the same hole. I recommend only using new brass on serious hunts, as this load is at the top of the tables.

Suggestion: In regards to the peep sight eye disk, use the largest hole available. Though hard to believe, peep sights loose light faster than a scoped rifle. Always get a blade front sight for hunting rifles, not covered target sights. (By the way, don’t use the set trigger for hunting – at 3/8 of a pound, it is dangerous to walk through the brush with). The rifle is a joy to shoot, and racked up the trophies on my African safari.

Feast of the Rhinoceros

Nyala, Numero Uno 2004/05

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