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Feast of the Rhinoceros

Posted on March 14, 2012 by DSefton

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

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Hunting With Friends….

Posted on March 8, 2012 by DSefton

Socializing with friends in Central Texas Safari has so greatly enriched our lives.   This summer, a group of us went to Africa and toured the Cape – then hunted together. We sent an email blast out, inviting anyone and everyone. A lucky few answered the call. It was amazing fun, memories for a lifetime. Travis and Danielle Zibiliski hunted the Northern Cape this summer for the first time, and we were privileged to tag along.   Travis – a mighty hunter indeed; he stacked them up every day in the truck. Danielle took a wonderful gemsbok.   Leann likewise gunned her gemsbok at 200 yards, alas this humble author, merely wounded his blue wildebeest, which promptly abandoned the field of conflict never to be seen again. Travis on the other hand gunned down a gold medal waterbuck – an amazing trophy. Everyone got their animals but me! Shortly thereafter, we packed our friends off back to the US so they could get down to some serious business, and we traveled north.

I had over the years, thanks to the guidance of a dear friend Irvin Tam of Tam Safaris, started on the arduous task of completing my big five, something I never thought I could do – or would do.   It was here – at the very tippy tips of my fingers.   I was heading north for leopard, and the final completion of my big five – it’s all I thought about.   When we got there, we were on the South side of a rough, but low mountain range paralleling the border of Zimbabwe and the Limpopo River.   The terrain was bizarre for Africa, almost a riverine rain forest.   Thick, lush vegetation full of vines and broad leaf plants – thick, almost impenetrable to the eye. Tall trees cast most of the area in shades, there were an occasional baobab tree, marking thousand year old elephant trails (they have to be thousands of years old because that’s how long they take to grow).

The jungle game trails had been dragged for leopard. An unappetizing activity involving dragging the innards of slain several day old animals around miles of trails back to animal corpse hung in trees.    The tremendous effort put in this part of the hunt makes or breaks a successful leopard hunt. My favorite blind turned out to be my luckiest blind, it was facing a low overhung tree branch, with a mountain stream tumbling down the far side, gurgling and crashing against the rocks. Actually it was a beautiful little waterfall.   We got a hit – the leopard ate, and left tracks – a big cat.    The excitement ramped up, it was only day two of our hunt.   The blind was set up all afternoon; it was invisible at a distance. Tree branches were carefully trimmed, all human indication was removed.   We entered the blind at 4:00 prepared for a long night, not ten minutes after sitting, a bush buck barked a predator warning, the cat was behind us directly in our wind.   Was the hunt and a week worth of work blown?   Not another 15 minutes went back before the leopard jumped into the tree. Huge, magnificent, deadly. – I now had a do or die shot, if botched, tracking it in the jungle would be a nightmare – all I could think about was messing up that wildebeest shot.   As I leaned into my gun the cat swatted the meat, and then disappeared. Totally perplexing, it couldn’t hear our sound as the roaring waterfall hid everything, the wind was in our face – it was just an exceptionally wary cat that had been shot at before.

Thirty minutes later he was back, he came up an impossibly tangled branch, I could see his head and a 3 inch by 3 inch patch of body. An incredibly difficult pin point shot. No room for error – I lined up, and when the crosshairs touched the shoulder point I fired. I was using a Dakota 98 in 300 Win Mag with a 3×12 Swarovski scope.   The cat froze, I didn’t know what happened, it just stood there, then slumped. Dead on its feet, after a few minutes he slipped off the branch falling the ten feet to the ground.   The elation was indescribable.    The experience was all the more rewarding having been enhanced with the excitement and bonding of all my friends in the Central Texas Safari Club.   That night, a Cuban cigar, bottle of 18 year old single malt scotch, and a boma fire….   as good as life gets.

This entry was posted in Hunting, Lifes Finer Things, Travel. Bookmark the permalink.
Is an Animal Rights Agenda Racist?

Posted on March 8, 2012 by DSefton

Regardless of how you view race, whether or not the words ‘reparations’ and ‘affirmative action’ make your blood boil, most of us view things like the Klu Klux Klan as bad. Yet even the KKK at its worst would shudder at some of the well-meaning animal rights policies imposed on various countries in the name of extremist conservation. My son recently discussed with me the substance of some of his courses at University of Texas. They concerned the “natural rights” of animals. I am proud to say that at Texas A&M, animals were given due consideration in the animal husbandry class by teaching the best method to cook steaks—I digress. According to my son, as we humans evolve we will begin to see all animals have “natural rights” akin to those declared in our Declaration of Independence, and as we develop we will begin to see the immorality of taking the life of any creature that can feel fear or pain. This, of course, ties with the view that Colonel Sanders “murdered” far more lives than Adolf Hitler, because Hitler killed “only” 6 million Jews, whereas Colonel Sanders “murdered” billions.

Those of you familiar with PETA will recognize the latter as one of their famous quotes. Yet how many people think it is “moral” to kill a whitetail deer, yet inherently “immoral” to kill, let’s say, an elephant? It’s fascinating to see people draw lines around what is acceptable to hunt and what isn’t. Each has a different view. At dinner one evening, talking to people who live and hunt in Africa, I posed the question “Surely an elephant that takes human life needs to be put down,” and they resoundingly said “NO!” – because if a human gets killed by an elephant it is his own fault. He’s done something wrong. There we have the essence of one of the most racist agendas facing human culture today. The lives of indigenous Africans are not as valuable as whites of European extraction, therefore they must be sacrificed to further the extremist views regarding conservation foisted on them by radical animal rights groups.
You see, in Africa, the people scratching out an existence from the meager soil don’t deal in global moralities. Theirs is a day-to-day struggle, and many animals, elephants in particular, threaten their existence. Virtually all animal rights activists believe that because elephants are sentient beings they should not be killed or culled for any reason. Ignoring the fact that in many countries a human is executed for taking another human’s life, elephants because of their cute and cuddly demeanor should be spared the same.

The hype regarding elephants in the wild versus the reality could not be more disparate. I can speak with some knowledge, far more than most animal rights activists, as I have had a friend killed by an unprovoked elephant attack. The most courageous people I know are the indigenous Africans who spend every night of their growing season with a stack of rocks and pots and pans in a small flimsy blind waiting to see if elephants are going to destroy their village crops. Elephants in just one night can wipe out a village’s food for a year. To argue that elephants should be allowed to do so by animal rights activists ignores the plight of the village left to starvation. It doesn’t matter who got to the valley first, there is plenty of wild fodder in most instances for elephants to live on but they choose to decimate villages. If the villagers object, the elephants many times will attempt to slaughter them.
In rural African villages, a hunter is a life saver, a provider of food, a source of much-needed hard currency and employment. A single elephant shot in the area surrounding a village typically means their fields are safe for three months to even as long as half a year. The meat can typically feed up to 7 villages for over two weeks. Likewise the elephants are saved from overpopulation, and the money goes to the tribes to fund schools and other improvement projects. The animal rights activist would leave the villages destitute. The reason is simple. To most animal rights extremists, it matters not at all that a dozen villages, children, mothers, and families, will die of starvation, sacrificed to an extreme animal preservation ideology. After all, these aren’t white neighbors. But let a single stray dog attack someone on their street and they will call the pound to have the dog dealt with, even though their neighbor wasn’t fatally wounded. Where is the balance?

Yes, poaching is a problem. We are hunters and not poachers, but how many animal rights activists see the difference? Have you talked to your kids recently about what they are learning in high school or college? We are losing the war to the anti-hunters, not on a fair moral playing field, but on one slanted and biased against us. We are losing the war from first grade onward. Hunters in turn cannibalize themselves.

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Nyala, Numero Uno 2004/05

Posted on March 8, 2012 by DSefton

(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.

This entry was posted in Dangerous Game, Hunting, South Africa, Travel. Bookmark the permalink.
Stupid, Stupid, Hunter….

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

Kudu

Man – there it was… looking through the scope… a Kudu… 64’ish… maybe 62. The bases of his horns were so big I couldn’t have put both hands around them… his horns went up and up and up… he was frozen looking at me – me, frozen looking at him… eye glued to the scope, gripping a deadly 375 Ruger…. I had him, cross hairs on the throat – him looking right at me.

Then I did the stupidest thing – ever – in my life [a life filled with many stupid things], I passed. Hendrik was hissing “take him, take him” – I passed… I passed… you know I still see that Kudu, sometimes I wake up thinking about him. What was I thinking?

I had just taken my leopard, so I already had a big bill, plus I took a zebra, ca-ching…the bill adding up. Leann had taken animals at our previous stop in Kimberly – overall an expensive summer. I was thinking money, and I should have been thinking once in a lifetime Kudu… stupid, stupid.
Our stay at Nyala Lodge in the Limpopo was amazing. They had outstanding game, the largest Nyala, not only I had ever seen, I had ever even heard about. The Kudu, as I said was majestic – the bush is thick on this lush side of the mountain, almost tropical in vegetation, but truly exceptional. Rare monkeys and guinea fowl that can’t be found anywhere else in Africa roam the ranch. It was so thick leopards regularly patrolled the land. I nailed mine the first day at 4:30 in the afternoon, an amazing accomplishment. I’m the only person I know that shot a leopard at a waterfall!
I’m still a stupid hunter – I can’t get that Kudu out of my head. I can’t believe I let it pass, I could always squeeze a few extra bucks out of my pocket, but I can’t squeeze a few extra 60 inch kudu’s from my backpack. A word from a most regretful hunter, when you see a trophy bigger than any of your friends – take it. It’s no fun living with regrets.

Nyala Lodge is one of the most amazing hunting lodges in Africa. The gourmet food is without compare, the animals stellar, and only a very few trophy hunters a year. One of the least hunted properties in Africa – my secret honey hole. The ranch has been in the family for many years, and is still family owned. We are the only club in the entire United States with this select outstanding property.

This entry was posted in Hunting, Limpopo, Travel and tagged Kudu hunts, Leopard Hunts, Nyala Lodge, regret. Bookmark the permalink.
Buffalo Summer

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

Some summers are more interesting than others. Then there is always that one summer, that becomes the most memorable one of your life. Hunting with Werner Van Noordsdwyk gave me a summer forever remembered. Werner is an incredible PH based in the Kafue region of Zambia. One of his several camps is on a plain stretching out from the former King and Queen of England’s retreat, their panoramic view teamed with wildlife in the 1950’s. My long-awaited hunt with Werner Van Noordwyk had been scheduled for over a year. He is one of Africa’s top up-and-coming PH’s. I had purchased his amazing donation at the Central Texas Safari Club Gala. My wife, a recognized professional photographer, was there in Zambia to take pictures of Werner’s GMA and camp; I was there to hunt buffalo.

Having had two bad buffalo hunts previously in Zim, I was spooked. The first day, we searched and searched and just couldn’t find the legendary 1,000+ Kafue herd I had heard so much about. We kept looking. The first day we stalked some, then covered many kilometers seeking fresh spoor, and just couldn’t find the herds.

We left extra early the next morning. Ice for the first time in living memory had formed on the grass, and it was bitterly cold in that early dawn. The buffalo once again were spooky, keeping their distance, and just not where they were supposed to be. We found tracks, stalked, just couldn’t find them. They seemed to disappear.

We circled the double hills again, decided to head back for a late lunch, and crossing the road were the buffalo, exactly where we had spent hours earlier trying to find them. They just streamed across, not noticing us. Over a hundred passed the road. We were trapped. If we moved, they would notice and run. Magnificent boss after boss crossed the road, my hunting dream, yet I couldn’t even reach for my gun! I dared not move an inch lest I spook them. Suddenly a cow stopped dead in her tracks, turned, stared at us, gave a warning low, and the herd broke into a dead run, not stopping for almost ¾ of a mile. Finally she slowed, then lowered her head and grazed. We waited then slowly bailed out stalking—it took us an hour to make contact. We slowly edged on, passing many cows and young males. We kept inching forward and finally came on a great bossed bull, but the angle was wrong and the distance far. Up we inched, slowly coming around a group of three bushes, and then the bull we were after was just ahead. Making the turn, a cow had set up to the far right, intentionally turning against the herd sensing someone following. Busted! We froze, she stared at us, we stared at her, a warning snort and the herd ran for another mile. We could see the dust roiling far in the distance. We recouped, regrouped, then stalked further. It was hot and dry now. The tsetse flies were a real nuisance, and we just moved on. For no reason the herd bolted again. We were over 500 yards away, so we just turned and headed back to the truck, disgusted. I had a long ride back to camp that night.

Something was different the next day, it just seemed crisper, I was more positive: the day before, I had looked them in the eye; been close enough to shoot; been on the sticks—today just felt right. Later, in the field, we drove far down the GMA, till we found where we thought yesterday’s herd had crossed the road. The spoor was very fresh, but now we followed the herd into extremely thick brush. Within 50 yards we had less than five yards visibility. It was extremely thick and slow going. We kept spooking the buffs up ahead and could hear them gallop off. Finally in midafternoon we abandoned the losing game. The wind just wouldn’t stay with us in the thick stuff.

We made a huge loop, jumping miles and miles ahead. It was now late into the afternoon, and again we saw the herd crossing an opening. Werner made a strategic move, backing the truck way down the path so the buff wouldn’t see us this time. There were a huge number of calfs and cows. We took a chance and begin working up the trail. The first 500 yards or so, I saw maybe 50 cows, most with calfs. We had fairly open cover, with a few bushy trees sporadically sprouting every twenty yards or so before the belt of grass ended in some disturbingly thick bush. If we spooked them, they were going into cover so thick we couldn’t follow. As we inched down the trail we passed several young bulls, then finally we came on a big one. His horns easily measured 46 inches, but we couldn’t see the boss.
Slowly we crept up, sliding down the trail. The bull was feeding at an angle, and I set up on my sticks. Finally he looked up and back so we had a good view of his boss. He was a big bull, but young, and his boss was neither solid nor large. As trying as it was, I let him pass. We moved on, becoming aware we were in the middle of a large elephant herd as well.

The babies were all around with the cow elephants. Due to the curve in the path I was less than ten yards from large elephant cows. One tracker kept an eye on the elephants to the right, while Werner and I kept focused on the buffalo to the left. We slid down the path, five of us moving as one, a human centipede, creeping up on the nice old dagga boy. We set up, he wasn’t massively wide, but he appeared to have great bosses. The sticks were out and up, I got ready, the light was failing. One of the hardest acts of self-control was holding off my shot. Werner waited, and slowly the bull fed away but quartering. When he grazed almost broadside at 60 or 70 yards, Werner whistled. The bull snapped his head around, showing his great old scarred bosses. Werner hissed “Shoot.” I fired before he’d finished. My Barnes slammed the dagga boy right through the shoulder. The old dagga boy launched himself up on two hoofs, straight up in the air, pawing the sky. He paused, balancing before crashing to the ground. He staggered backwards for 10 or so feet, then sagged to the grown.

The elephants surrounding us trumpeted wildly, crashing through the trees, over 200 head of buffalo smashed through the bush in confusion. The moment was terse, tense and fraught with imminent danger. A baby elephant screamed hysterically from behind the wounded buff and charged off across our path to his mother. The elephants went wild, luckily charging away from us. We hadn’t seen the baby, and amazingly he hadn’t been hit. The herd we thought was only 50 or so buffs was actually over 200, and they charged to the left. We had animals running in all different directions, literally mayhem encircling us. It was a madhouse and some minutes before everything calmed down.

After the crushing blow to my buffalo, he sagged to earth, stumbled backwards for ten-ish yards, and slumped down, fighting death to his last breath. We stayed in place, frozen, till the mayhem settled itself, and snuck up on the buffalo. I was cocked, loaded, off safety and ready to put another in him—unneeded, because he was safely dead. In the gathering dusk we quickly created our trophy pictures. I was sure to incorporate my killer new shooting sticks from African Creations. I mention them because they were so stiff it was like shooting on a benchrest. They’ve truly engineered a better mousetrap! After the pictures we loaded up the beast and headed to camp.

This entry was posted in Hunting, Travel, Zambia and tagged Buffalo Hunts. Bookmark the permalink.
Late Season Botswana Hunt

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

Leann and I had an amazing hunt at the end of 2010. Let’s say right off the bat, it wasn’t successful. Regardless, surprisingly, I have to say it was still a great hunt. (Take a look at the big tusker we passed across the highway from our concession while leaving! ) On our very last day, a new hunter – just arrived – shot HIS elephant on his FIRST day! I suppose normally one could be a little jealous, but we’re really happy for him. Arnold Payne just secured a concession in eastern Botswana – it covers a huge tribal area. Payne’s Impala Safaris has been one of our major donors over the year. He is now putting on some great value Botswana elephant hunts in his new concession. They have taken 9 elephants out of the 14 permits issued in the area thus far. He has a few slots still left open if you ever wanted to hunt a Bots ele. What’s amazing, unlike most areas in Botswana, there is no limit or extra charge on ivory size, that’s what attracted me to the area.
The hunting season in this great area starts September and runs till January. Unseasonal early heavy rains hit and the elephant moved out of our concession crossing the Sabe river into Zimbabwe – just bad luck. They didn’t come back until our last day – that’s elephant hunting, never a guarantee – always a surprise.
It was “real” hunting – up early at 3:30 am, and on the road looking for tracks. Then dinner, many times at 10:00 pm before crashing into bed. Some nights in the fly camp, sleeping out in the wilds of tribal Africa, leopards calling in the night; complete with hyenas attacking and eating villagers donkeys – like I said – the real deal. Arnold Payne put on a great elephant hunt – authentic as it gets, and sometimes you just aren’t lucky – we couldn’t believe how heavy the rain was nor how deep and lush the vegetation. The PH Calvin Nobrega, worked hard to put us on elephant. He was relentless in the pursuit, and I can’t say enough about how good a job he did, nor how well his wife ran the camp. It was a real family experience, comfortable, though not posh. For many of our members this would be the perfect hunt, affordable, not over the top luxury wise, and a chance to get an elephant in legendary Botswana.

This entry was posted in Botswana, Hunting, Travel and tagged elephant hunts. Bookmark the permalink.
Dream Hunt – Elephant the Impala Safari Way

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

More times than not when you’re hunting it just falls apart; disappointment, dashed expectations, “almost” but not “quiet enough”. Then sometimes, when you’re really lucky it comes together. It’s one of the greatest feelings in the world – bagging an awesome trophy – the effort, expense, dreams just dropping in place. Then, for the exceptionally lucky few, very occasionally – you hit a home run.
Dan Bolt, of San Antonio, two weeks ago, hit the world series, bases loaded, home run of hunting. He shot a great 60 pounder elephant in Zimbabwe, but that wasn’t all. That was only one of two! He also took a remarkable “storybook” 90 pounder as well (sounds like a turn of the century “Karamojo” Bell story). Dan was hunting with our own Arnold Payne, CTSC member, of Impala African Safaris in Zimbabwe. Dan booked the hunt, not knowing fully what to expect. Arnold has been a long time donor to our club, and has provided many successful dangerous game hunts for our members. One memorable trip both club member hunters scored huge leopards. In this case, Dan’s incredible dream elephant hunt took place in the Tsholotsho region of Zimbabwe. The tribal lands are only 4 hours or so outside Bulawayo, south of the famous Hwange National Park.

Arnold warned Dan, it would be wet, extremely hot, and a very rough challenging hunt. The hunting concession was massive covering a truly impressive area. For the hunt, Impala African Safaris offered an extremely comfortable camp, top notch food, as well as great equipment – all critical for a successful hunt.

For Dan, it was some of the toughest hunting in his career, but without a doubt obviously worth it. Arnold’s PH, Calvin Nobrega, was ferociously tenacious, always going further seeking a bigger bull – the perfect heavy bull. Dan, didn’t get a great deal of sleep on this trip – up early hunting hard. Calvin’s drive and persistence paid off. Over the course of a week he saw over 400 bull elephants the first seven days of the hunt. Nobrega was always on bulls, judging them, then moving on. Seeking that one holy grail of the shooters. Many were in herds of 50 on up. In almost 20 years of hunting, I have never experienced this jumbo density.

Leading up to the final stalk, Dan kept coming across small groups of elephant – none meeting the PH’s standard. Finally, they stumbled into the mother lode, over 60 bulls ambling away. There were a number of 60 pounders in the herd. In Africa, today, this is amazing. In all of my career hunting and photography I have only viewed two or three 60 pounders. As they began to stalk and move around the herd, Calvin saw a big 70 pounder. He was massive, as they moved to get into position, on the far edge of the herd, he then caught site of a jumbo 90 pounder moving off by himself. Conditions prevented Dan and Calvin from following him up. They took it slow and easy working the edges of the herd trying to get in position for a good clean shot on the milling elephant.

Later in the day patience paid off, the gargantuan elephant moved back into the herd and Dan, guided by Calvin began stalking up. Nobrega, a school chum of Arnolds, is Impala African Safaris’ “go to” man for elephants. Arnold relies on him heavily as his elephant expert, especially when the hunter is looking for big bulls. Without doubt this elephant qualified as record heavy ivory. Dan and Calvin eased up on the big bull – patience, patience, sliding towards him. As they gradually snaked closer, taking care to watch the wind, other elephants, and staying silent they got within an amazing15 yards. From personal experience, it takes nerves of steel to get that close to these massive animals and pull the trigger.
Dan took careful aim, using the venerable 375 H&H caliber, a Winchester Model 70, with the 1.25 x 4 Swavorski scope, he fired, dropping the elephant in one shot. In the process taking what is probably Zimbabwe’s top elephant for the year, as well as one of the top SCI records for 2010.

We are proud to have a top notch outfitter in our club, Impala African Safaris. Arnold Payne puts on some exceptional hunts, if you’re interested in having a chance at taking a once in a life time jumbo elephant check out the web site www.impalasafaris.com or phone 480-558-6932.

Dan – congratulations on an exceptional job, there are few, if any hunters, in the last half century that shot two big elephants in a week. It’s testimony to your hunting skills and endurance, Calvin’s tenacious persistence and guiding, and Arnold’s amazing operation.

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Deal of a Lifetime – Ubathi

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

We knew Ubathi in Kimberly South Africa would do an outstanding job. Travis and Danielle, Leann and I bought the Ubathi hunt for 4 hunters, 4 observers for 2009 at the Alamo SCI Banquet. Top notch hunt, we racked up 18 or so animals all together.

Bill Coffey in turn bought the hunt at our October Gala, he was looking for a family hunt. Bill and his wife, Marti, were concerned having second thoughts: would 8 year old Melody like it? He knew his sons would enjoy the hunt, but what about the rest of the family. Danielle and I walked him through it, sent introductory emails for this fantastic hunt down to Renee and Johan in South Africa. As the year progressed, the arrangements moved forward. Some friends joined, a nice group went – what to expect? I talked to Bill right before he left, still a tad bit apprehensive.

Who can figure? Why be worried, he had made a simple little upgrade – to a lion! With a bow! Bill – family in tow – arrived in South Africa in the crazy World Cup – things were exciting. Bill decided to focus on the lion hunt first, crossing SA, and hunted at the Botswana border. The hunt stretched over two critical days as the lion hit a local donkey the night before. Johan, Bill and the trackers headed out at 3:00 am in the morning. The hunt involved heavy tracking, crossing the arid area, following tracks away from the kill. As time progressed, things lagged into a numbed state, walking walking, searching, wondering if you were going to get a lion at all.

The day stretched into afternoon, everyone was getting tired. It had been real hunting, miles of miles of tracking and stalking. They knew they were close, but a lion is elusive in his natural element. Happenstance, a thorn bush dragged along the trackers leg, pulling his shoe strings loose, as he bent down to tie the knots, he glanced up: there crouched, tensed, ready to launch, was the lion – a three yards away – paces, mere paces. Eye contact – the lion exploded up, and away, rocketing through the bush – then sudden stillness. Everyone was wired, they knew the lion was readying a charge, setting an ambush. PH Johan Botes, gripped his rifle, the tracking became deadly serious. Everyone knew the lion could charge any moment.

As they rounded a thorn bush, the lion was there, momentarily looking a different direction, Bill had a chance for a snap shot with his bow, aiming, let fly. The shot took the lion on the shoulder quartering away, the worse possible bow shot, against the worse possible beast. The arrow sped true, luckily crushing the shoulder, through the chest and exited the other side. The lion spun and had only 40 more good yards left in him before piling up, dead. Johan, patting Bill on the back “thank God you shot, I was fixing to pull the trigger, bad business shooting before the client” – when it’s that close not much else you can do.

The hunt wasn’t over, Bill and his family spent another ten days with Renee and Johan at their warm and friendly lodge. Great food, lots of young animals to play with including baby baboons and monkeys. Both Bill’s boys hunted, his 12 year old took a Kudu with a bow, and the other a gemsbok. All of the family took animals. Bill took a an impressive kudu, some other great trophies as well. All together they racked up an impressive 13 animals. Bill found his 308 Weatherby sub MOA to be spot on in Kimberly for the longer shots.

What did the Coffey’s take away from Ubathi, the warm family environment of Renee and Johan, the incredible lodges – very authentic, real hunting without the fu-fu; great food, bbq’d over open flames, hearty farm meals, and flowing drinks around the boma. The animals are stellar, and the PH’s spot on – it’s real hunting. Oh yea, what about little 8 year old Melody? After playing with the lion cubs, baby baboons and monkeys, seeing Africa as it was 100 years ago, wild and beautiful – she cried when she finally had to leave. Families that hunt together… well you know the rest.

Johan and Renee Botes are great supporters, http://www.ubathi.co.za,

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Hidden Jewel

Posted on March 3, 2012 by DSefton

Rolling planes, wind driven waves of grass flowing then ebbing in the swirling breeze. It could be a hundred years ago, Boer farmers in oxen carts staring across virgin land for the first time. Instead, 100 years later, it’s us staring across pristine veldt.

Phillip Bronkhorst, one of Africa’s pre-eminent professional hunters led us to his hidden Eden. We are miles from Pretoria, yet deep in old Africa. Nootitgedaght, in the province of Mpumalanga (translated as “Where the Sun Rises”) , is a government project re-establishing the original free ranging herds. Wild wildebeest frolic across thousand upon thousands of acres, as does the springbok and zebras. An amazing slice of historic Africa. Phillip has the exclusive concessions to these state land gems.

We commenced stalking the elusive springbok. There is no cover, no trees, no bush, only the undulating hills. We have to stalk up the backsides of slopes using the rims as blinds. Leann has always wanted a springbok and up we creep. Distance is very deceptive on these rolling hills, we had to go a lot further than we thought to make the hill ridge. We peeked over – the binocular glint spooked the antelopes. Off they surge at speed, across the valley and over another hill. Rather than go directly across we trek the long way down. Crossing parallel to the valley, then follow a rift across, we work the up the next ridge. This time we have the sun lined up. Leann crawls up the slope walking on her knees. She works it up, I stay back in case I spook the skittish devils. Up she goes, slipping her rifle from her shoulder. A sweet, cut down 30-06 Weatherby Vanguard, my what a tight little out of the box shooting rifle, her Swarovski scope, the cross-hairs gently kissing the springboks shoulder at 300 yards. The peaceful veldt is shattered by the rifle report.

Down, the springbok’s down – the herd skitters away across another ridge. We see mountain reebok prancing amongst the rocks , curious, on the next ridge as we collect our springbok. The herds are magnificent, large, healthy, running freely across the plains. Later, I stalk a black wildebeest, blown as I hit the ridge top, I bounce my gun on the sticks and miss a neck shot at 150 yards. I’m disgusted. Phillip has worked two hours to put me on these blackies, they have proven this day to be unusually wary. I’m shocked I missed, and thoroughly disappointed.

Phillip rather than being put out, is as cheerful as ever, and swears we will still get one. As I see the wildebeest running miles in the distance I wonder. I need to be in better shape next year. The climb didn’t seem that high, but it had been a long steady trudge up the ridge. I can’t quiet get the hang of all this openness. Then, Leann and her zebra. Talk about ill fated. She had always wanted a zebra. Her first trip she said that was all she wanted to shoot (the list had really grown this year). After weeks of hunting she just hadn’t had any luck on a zebra. She had missed her first couple of easy shots, then they were always out of range, or she wasn’t ready when they appeared, just bad timing all around.

Now she began stalking them in earnest. They on the other hand didn’t want to cooperate. We tried to out think them: hiding Leann and her beautiful female PH, Maja, on a ridge; we went ten miles across the planes and walked back towards them to block the zebras. The striped contrarians in a massive herd, moved ahead of us, as they got within shooting range of Leann, they slipped by unseen, nimbly skirting through a small almost unnoticeable rift that left her without an angle to shoot. I was amazed they could find a small cleft in the land and use it to stay unshootable. I don’t think a professional surveyor could have eyeballed it better.

So the day went on – and on. We worked a shot, the zebras slipped by. I was becoming frustrated, we had worn our boots out across those fields. Finally Leann stalked up on a beautiful stallion, perched on the side of a draw. She snapped her rifle to her shoulder and fired. Her Barnes X hit perfectly, the stallion reared and went over the cliff. About 50 feet down we found the stallion, dead from the first shot. I have always had trouble taking zebra even with much heavier rifles. The damage created by the Barnes X was astounding.

Phillip, was the hero of the day. I must say he runs a top notch camp, the food and companion ship was spectacular. We had purchased his hunt in an SCI auction the first time not really knowing much about him or his concessions (the best in South Africa). He has become a dear friend, and as I write he will be getting married to his beautiful bride JoAnna next week, and as you read this, the confirmed incorrigible stereotypical bachelor will be well settled in matrimonial bliss (JoAnna made me write this!). Phillip has always been an outstandingly generous patron of many many local Safari Clubs this one included. Join him, you will find not only a great hunter, but a lifelong friend.

Oh, and the black wildebeest, I suspect your wondering? Phillip did put me on one, we snuck up on it behind some of the only boulders in miles. I popped up, less blown I’m thankful to say, took a safer shoulder shot, and dropped him with one shot at 75 yards. I had always wanted one of these comical antelope, and now he can join his cousin on my trophy wall! No question, Nootitgedaght was our honey hole. An odd word, its translation? “Never Thought”. How appropriate to this little Eden. It could be carved out of an aging plate illustration from an antique hunting book on Africa as it was – and for us, as it is now.

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