A HUNT IN SOUTH AFRICA
with
by Eric Ching
The Game Taken
The drive from Schalk's ranch to his father's property a dozen or so kilometers away just after dawn in the exposed back of the hunting car was rather brisk; we all shivered as we bundled up in our lightweight African hunting gear with our backs to the wind, but the day warmed up quickly as the sun edged its way upwards. Greg was first up by mutual decision, and as we drove toward the main gate Schalk spotted a family of warthog inside the game fence. He eased the truck to a stop, signaled Greg to follow him, and they carefully ducked between the wire strands of the game fence and took off in pursuit of the warthog. It was a short and unsuccessful chase, and we were soon on our way again.
After greeting his parents, we started our tour of the ranch looking for game. I was next up after Greg, so I chambered a round, set the safety, and started looking. After a few false starts, we spotted an impala emerging from the brush ahead of us on the left side of the road. It stopped standing broadside facing right in the middle of the road at the top of a rise, backlit and in shadow, at about 90 yards. Schalk said in a loud whisper, "Shoot it!" I put a Federal Premium 165-grain Trophy Bonded .308 through the back of its lungs and was startled when it took off like a shot. "Did I miss!?" was my first incredulous thought. We drove up to where it headed off into the bush and the trackers quickly found some tiny flecks of frothy blood spoor. The impala had piled up under a tree about 40 yards off the road and was completely dead by the time we found it.
It was first blood for the hunt and first blood for me. The custom there is for the novice hunter to eat a piece of the animal's liver raw to commemorate first blooding, but as it turned out my hit was far enough back that the liver had been pulped. Too bad; I was sort of looking forward to the ritual. Rita had been sitting in the truck's cab with Schalk, and she later told me that he had commented approvingly, "He shot quickly!" I guess a lot of first-time hunters take too long setting up to shoot, and given that I was a first-timer, he had expected the same. I was glad to have surprised him favorably in that regard.
After a second day with no results, I took my blesbok and warthog on the morning and afternoon, respectively, of the third hunting day. I had switched to my Rem 700 in .350 Rem Mag at Schalk's suggestion. It was stoked with handloads consisting of near maximum charges of W748 pushing a 225-grain Nosler Partition at about 2500 fps.
Schalk spotted a small herd of blesbok from the hunting car late in the morning and we bailed out to track them while the car drove on. We followed them in a large circle and set up on them a couple of times without getting a clear shot before they moved on. Finally Schalk pointed out a ram standing head-on at about 80 yards. It was in partial shade between two bushes and it was hard to tell the exact orientation of the body. I set up on the shooting sticks, held center chest at the base of the neck, and fired when Schalk said I had a clear shot. A veritable blesbok explosion occurred at the shot, with the herd scattering everywhere and eventually angling away and to the right. We ran to the spot where the ram had been standing but didn't find blood, even though Schalk had heard the kugelschlag. Schalk tracked the herd and we spotted the ram trailing the main body a couple of times but couldn't get a clear shot at it. Schalk had identified the ram by small white markings at the bases of its horns.
We eventually lost the track and returned to the road to get the truck and Jan the tracker. After driving to where we'd lost the trail, Jan stood up in the back of the hunting car and directed Schalk unerringly in an arcing path to the right, where we spotted the blesbok standing about 300 yards from where it had been hit. Schalk jumped out with his .30-06 and finished it with two broadside shots. I was a little surprised that he didn't let me finish it, but he explained later that he'd had game run off and require additional tracking while waiting for the client to take the shot so he didn't want to take the chance of losing the wounded animal. As a novice hunter, I could understand his rationale, but I felt a little disappointed nevertheless.
Apparently my first shot had strayed a couple of inches left and missed the front right shoulder, entering the ram's body near the front ribs and exiting the left rump, leaving a small exit wound. It was enough to make the animal "sick," as the locals describe it, but it missed the vitals in the chest. I suspect the shading on the animal's left side drew my eyes to its illuminated right side, and from the way the bullet passed through its body, its right side must have been exposed at a shallow angle to us.
The rest of the day was uneventful until late afternoon, when the sun's rays had shaded to gold and shadows were long on the ground. We were driving along one of the game fences and saw three warthogs feeding along the left side of road, moving directly away from us. They were about 90 yards off and lengthening the distance slowly. The hunting car stopped and I sighted in on them, waiting for Schalk to glass them and tell me which one to shoot. After a minute or so, the lead warthog turned left and walked into the bush. As he did so, Schalk said, "Take the second one when he turns." As the second hog made the turn I drifted my crosshairs from rump forward to its shoulder, and as it came broadside the trigger broke with the vertical wire just behind the point of its left shoulder. It was knocked down on its right side by the hit and never got up, and I clearly remember the "THWACK!" of the kugelschlag, the first one I'd heard. The bullet had entered exactly where I'd expected and exited at the front point of the opposite shoulder, a perfect diagonal shot through the boiler room. I was surprised at how soft and pliable the hide was, having expected it to be much tougher. After the less-than-perfect hit on the blesbok earlier in the day, this clean one-shot kill at the end of the day revived my spirits.
No action on the fourth day, but the fifth day produced my most desired trophy: the greater kudu. We were hunting on Schalk's father's ranch, and after several false starts we jumped off the hunting car to pursue a kudu. After some careful stalking, Schalk spotted him partially hidden and facing us at almost 100 yards. It took my inexperienced eyes several seconds before I could pick out the pale grey/brown and irregularly-striped animal in the shadows. The high grass covered his legs up to his belly, and he remained perfectly still as I set up over the shooting sticks. Schalk whispered, "Shoot him at the base of the neck," and after lining up I started my trigger press. I was fully committed when the kudu started to turn toward my left, and the trigger broke just as its shoulder passed the vertical crosshair. As it turned out, the distance, angle, and movement of the kudu caused a hit behind the shoulder that traversed the gut and ended up in the right rear haunch, very similar to what happened with the blesbok two days earlier. The slug was later recovered and presented a classic Nosler Partition performance, with the front core gone, the jacket petaled back, and the rear shank intact. The kudu ran and we chased it but could not find blood spoor. Eventually Filemon and Jan, the trackers, and Jason, the hunting assistant, joined the search, which was difficult because of the lack of blood and the abundance of kudu tracks in the area.
After an hour of casting about, Jason and Filemon reported that they'd spotted a kudu that was moving slowly as if it were wounded. We all converged on the general area and Schalk went to the right and told me to go left with Filemon and Jason. Moving slowly and quietly we stalked through the patch of bushveld where the kudu had been spotted, quickly losing sight of Schalk. Then we heard one shot from Schalk, followed about 20 seconds later by another, then a third a bit later. We ran towards the sound and came upon Schalk standing over the kudu, which was still alive after having absorbed one .350 Rem Mag and three .375s. Filemon dispatched it by severing the spinal cord at the base of the skull. Schalk said that he had taken long shots at it, wanting to put more lead into it to slow it down and bleed it out. I was elated that we hadn't lost it; Schalk said later that he'd almost given up before Filemon and Jason had spotted it, and that based on where it was spotted, he thought that the wily kudu had been circling us as we were tracking it. I was in awe at the magnificence of the animal and the nicely proportioned spiraled horns. As of that moment my hunt was a complete success, regardless of what happened during the rest of the trip.
Days six and seven involved a lot of hunting, some of it on Harry's "gemsbok" ranch about two hour's drive from home base, but no game taken. One of the more memorable moments of the trip was arriving just before dawn at this ranch and driving slowly toward a large meadow where we hoped to spot the gemsbok herd, stopping about 50 yards short of the meadow and quietly walking through the dim light to the meadow's edge and standing next to the bordering trees. It was perfectly still with a light mist over the area, and as the sky lightened we could start to make out more and more features. Then we saw small shapes emerging slowly from the tress across the meadow and brought our binoculars to bear. It was a herd of red hartebeest coming out to graze. We watched them for several minutes until they moved back into the trees.
Greg managed to shoot a fine female gemsbok there out of a herd we spotted late in the day, and his shot spooked the herd into running toward and jumping over the fence bordering the large meadow where they were grazing. Schalk and I happened to be waiting at one corner of the meadow to be picked up, and when we saw the herd swing our way, then curve toward the fence, I did a quick setup on a fencepost and took a snap shot at a gemsbok as it paused briefly before jumping the fence. The distance was very long and I underestimated it, so the shot fell short. Better a clean miss than a wounded animal, though.
On day eight we hunted on Weinand's grandfatherâs ranch (Weinand was the hunting guide working under Schalk). I was primarily after the sole remaining zebra on the property, but would consider a taking a wildebeest as well if a good one made itself available. The landowner wanted to establish a breeding herd of zebra on the property, but couldn't do it while a bachelor stallion remained, so we were doing him and the future zebra herd a favor by taking out the remaining animal. Greg had early success in the morning, dropping a very nice red hartebeest and a wildebeest within half an hour of our arrival. He was now done for the day and for the trip with two days of just rest and relaxation ahead.
I was up next and we found a herd of wildebeest grazing at the far side of a meadow about 200 yards across. We spent a long time glassing them, trying to find a shootable bull. Then, after Schalk had identified one and I had confirmed that I had the right one in my sights, we had to wait another 15-20 minutes to get a clean shot as it walked clear of a young calf but before it went behind a bush. The wildebeest dropped like a rock when hit and the herd started running, so I lost track of it. Schalk saw it bounce right up from its fall and take off with the rest of the herd. We followed the herd in the hunting car as it ran around the meadow but got no chance to spot and shoot the wounded bull before the herd disappeared into the bushveld. We spent the rest of the day finding and stalking the herd, hoping to be able to pick out and put down the wounded bull.
During lunch, Jason played chef to us guests while Schalk and Marius went off separately to find and stalk the wildebeest herd. I was a bit uneasy and depressed about not being allowed to finish the job, but I also realized that I would only reduce their chances of finding and putting down the wounded animal, which is the important thing. I ran that shot over and over in my mind and still couldn't figure out why the wildebeest was able to jump up and run after the hit.
When they finally came in for lunch, they both reported that they had gotten glimpses of the wounded bull but could never get a clear shot. Marius said that I'd hit it high in the chest, about an inch over the spine, with complete penetration. I'm mystified that my shot went so high at that distance, since my rifle was zeroed at 200 yards. There was little blood from the wound, and what there was didn't show up clearly against the dark hide of the wildebeest, making it hard to pick out in the herd. They noticed that it had a slight hitch to its gait, and that was what they eventually used to identify it.
After lunch we went out "trolling" in the hunting car again, and late in the afternoon, as we came around a large clump of bushes, I heard Schalk yell, "Shoot! Shoot!" I was sitting in the left seat of the open Land Rover and was looking forward and right at the yell. Seeing nothing there, I turned left, expecting to see the wounded wildebeest, but instead saw a zebra--actually, the only zebra on that ranch-- starting to run in the direction we were going, but angling away. I snapped the rifle up and immediately acquired the zebra in my scope as the truck stopped, swung the cross hairs from behind the zebra to just forward of the chest, and touched off the shot. My impression of the distance was about 75 yards, but Schalk later told me that it was more like 125 yards at the time of the shot. The zebra tumbled down with its legs facing toward us and I bolt-flicked a fresh round into the chamber. (Schalk later said that he'd told me to shoot when the zebra was standing still, but had yelled for me to not shoot when it started to run; I never heard the second command.)
As I brought the crosshairs to bear on the exposed lower chest of the zebra, which was struggling on the ground, I heard Schalk say, "Wait until he gets up," so I held my fire briefly and, sure enough, the zebra started to get to its feet. I heard Schalk's .375 H&H fire from behind me and to my right, and the zebra went down again but almost immediately bounced back to its feet. Marius's .30-06 and my .350 Rem Mag fired almost as one, putting the feisty animal down yet again, but after a short pause it popped up and started running off, curving away toward a screen of trees. I snapped off a quick shot at it just before it disappeared behind the trees, but there was no noticeable effect, so I probably missed.
As Marius and I were shooting, Schalk had jumped off the hunting car and run forward of the car trying to position himself to cut off the zebra if it headed that way, and it put him in position to see it after it went behind the trees. He took two shots at its fleeing rump, then started to run after it, with us following behind. We found the zebra down and dead a couple of hundred yards away, and after some quick trophy photos we hauled it into the bed of the hunting car with the winch and, because daylight was fading, quickly resumed our search for the wounded wildebeest.
After another 15 minutes of cruising we turned a corner and the wildebeest herd was next to the road on our right. It immediately started running away, and after a moment of hesitation and an exchange of glances between Schalk and Marius, Schalk brought up his .375 and shot a wildebeest at the middle back of the herd, which jerked at the hit but kept running. We all jumped out quickly and ran toward toward the spot and found a copious blood trail, which we proceeded to follow. Schalk had used his last round on that shot, so he left his rifle behind, and only Marius and I were armed. After about 100 yards, Schalk slowed up and as Marius and I came abreast of him, the wounded wildebeest's head and shoulders popped up from behind a large clump of grass about 20 yards in front of us, facing away, as it tried to get up and run again. As on the zebra, Marius and I fired almost simultaneously and the animal dropped for the last time. Schalk and Marius ran up to the downed beast and looked intently to see whether it was the one I'd wounded; they found the earlier wound, and they danced and hugged each other, happy to know that they hadn't made a mistake and shot the wrong animal. They told us that they had both visually picked out the same animal from the herd as the wounded one, but Marius had deferred to Schalk as the head PH to make the call.
On inspection, Marius and I had both hit within an inch of each other next to the spine in the middle of the animal's back, the bullet tracks angling down and forward through its chest to finish it off. Jason went off to fetch the truck, and when it arrived, Schalk broke out the Castle Lagers from the "cool box" and we all toasted the end of a successful day. The hunting car's bed was full with a red hartebeest, a zebra, and two blue wildebeests as we headed home as the stars emerged in the darkening sky.
Day nine produced no trophies, but Rita and I had a marvelous afternoon together on Schalk's father's ranch hunting for gemsbok, alone in the hunting car with just Filemon to guide us. We saw a lot of game, including several sightings of young kudu bulls, kudu cows, and juvenile kudu playing hide-and-seek with us, but no shootable gemsbok. At Filemon's instruction, I dispatched an African wild cat with a head shot at about 25 yards at one point, but that was the extent of the "bag" for the day. I never expected to use a .350 Rem Mag for varminting! We rode home in silence as the setting African sun reddened the sky and silhouetted the thorn trees.
On the tenth and last day, Schalk took Mike and me back to Harry's "gemsbok" ranch, as both of us had yet to shoot one. After a couple of fruitless spot-and-stalks, Schalk saw one off to the left of the road, standing facing us to the left of a tree, about 80 yards away. I had time to sling up (the only time I got to use the Ching Sling during the hunt) and waited for it to turn broadside. After a short wait it turned toward my left and I pressed the trigger with the crosshairs on its elbow joint. It ran at the shot, and based on the experiences with my kudu, zebra, and wildebeest, Schalk and Marius were out of the truck and running almost at the shot. There was no blood spoor in the immediate area, and it took half an hour of casting about to find the blood trail off to the left in the direction the gemsbok was facing when it was shot. The trail curved away from the hunting car and was intermittent at first, but after about 100 yards the blood spatters increased in frequency and volume. After another 50-75 yards we found the gemsbok down and dead. My bullet had angled forward through its chest, hitting its left lung but passing forward of its right lung, which probably accounted for its ability to run that far before expiring. The gemsbok had probably turned past 90 degrees when my bullet struck. It was a very old bull; Schalk said, and Harry (the owner of the ranch later concurred) that he hadn't seen such a heavy bull before. "We did Harry a favor by taking out this animal," said Schalk, presumably referring to making room for younger bulls to breed with the cows. That's what trophy hunting is really all about, and I was glad to contribute to the health of Harry's gemsbok herd.
So, as of about 9:30 on the morning of the last day of hunting, I was done. I was glad that my last kill, as well as my first, was a clean one-shot kill. Schalk had offered a few days earlier to trade me a wildebeest for my Swarovski 10X42 SLCs, which he'd been lusting after. I countered that I would trade it for a zebra, which Rita wanted after seeing Mike's, and he agreed. I was done with them now, and as we resumed the hunt for Mike's gemsbok I handed them over to Schalk saying, "I believe I have something that belongs to you." I unloaded my rifle for the last time, racked it, and became a "tourist" while Mike continued his hunt for a gemsbok and, with enough time and luck, a kudu as well. I never really believed that on a first hunt I could successfully take seven animals in ten days, but with the superb guiding, spotting, and tracking skills of Schalk van Heerden and his crew, it was a reality and a memory to last a lifetime.
The next morning, after packing up but before brunch, Jason took Rita and me over to a neighboring ranch to look at a couple of juvenile brown hyenas they'd trapped. While driving back along the perimeter fence of Schalk's farm, we saw the most magnificent kudu bull of the trip standing inside the fence staring out at us, head held high, with a dark beard and a darker coat than was the case among the others we'd seen. We quickly stopped the car and marvelled wordlessly at its majesty. It held our gaze for a few seconds as if to say, "Couldn't catch me, could you," then turned slowly and casually away, raised its chin to lay its spiral horns along its back, and melted soundlessly back into the bushveld.
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