My pleasurable stay in Nairobi was extended somewhat, bringing the pleasurable down to merely tolerable. Apparently the co-pilot never showed and the airline had some trouble locating a replacement, and it wasn't until hours later that we were airborne for South Africa. My guide, a very friendly elderly gentleman, and his sweet wife, waited patiently at the airport for my early morning arrival, and we drove off into the South African night, not arriving at the hunting camp until six in the morning, everyone quite exhausted. I was pleasantly surprised at the first world appearance of South Africa, as my African experience thus far was most definitely third world, but we could have been driving through Southern Ontario or Western Europe. The camp is quite gorgeous, more than a few scales above our accommodations in Mtwara, but I was frustrated to find my Tanzanian sim card would not connect, that there was no wireless at camp, nor could I plug in any of my electric gadgets, as my universal adaptors don't jive with South African outlets, but I was here to hunt.
A knock on my door woke me at eleven, feeling refreshed and invigorated, having slept like a baby. The South African hospitality was out in full force, for the breakfast was incredible, and soon the amicable Kobus, my guide, and I headed off into the wilds of Africa.
First and foremost, I had to shoot. The idea behind it is to make the customer comfortable with the rifle he'd be using to hunt, but the real reason is for the guide to gauge the customer's skill level, and just how close he had to get him to the game. I put the first shot, at a hundred yards, smack dab in the middle of the black dot in the centre of the target. The guide asked me to shoot again, and I did, and he frowned and walked towards the target. Either I was very good or missed completely as he couldn't see where the second shot had hit from where we were shooting. The two bullet holes were touching. He smiled and claimed that I obviously wouldn't be having any problems, and he didn't even bother bringing his own gun along for the hunt, a standard for guides for follow up shots when the clients mess up.
Kobus had us on kudu within the first hour. We glassed a herd of females in some thick brush, and as it was the rut, there was sure to be a male or two around, but we couldn't spot one. There was also some zebra mixed into the herd, which the guide advised was very bad. The kudu's incredible hearing coupled with the zebra's phenomenal eyesight would prove a difficult, if not impossible, stalk. Regardless, we managed to stalk within thirty yards before the herd spooked and were off, but we still hadn't seen a male. It was far and away our best chance, so we worked our way upwind and tried to close on them again. I found some pleasure in spotting the herd before the guide, and we worked towards them again, but something besides us was after them and they broke again and headed over a ridge line. We made our way towards the ridge, and eventually straight up the rock face, coming over the top for a phenomenal view of the Limpopo landscape, and glassed the low lands and drank the last of our water. We eventually spotted the herd again, and a large bodied specimen, but we were unable to determine the sex as just the rump was showing, so we elected to close again. Heel toe, heel toe, heel toe, softly and carefully planting each footstep as we made our way through the thick brush and down the hillside towards the herd. This time we got quite close, but still couldn't locate a male in the thick bush, and after a good six or seven kilometres of hiking, we decided to call it a day on kudu.
On the hike out, we came across a herd of impala, and a fine looking lead male. I had a shot but it would need to be threaded through a great deal of bush, and the slightest branch can set a spinning bullet off course, and the worst sin a hunter can commit is wounding an animal, so we elected to get in a better position. The herd was well aware of our presence by now, the male thrashing his antlers against the trees and snorting loudly at us, but despite repositioning and chasing them for miles, a proper shot never did present. The sun was now setting, and we headed back towards camp, but a pair of zebras soon crossed our path, with a clear shot well within my capability, but the guide assured me we could do much better, so I passed on yet another shot. On the drive out, nearly dark, a warthog dashed across the dirt track, so we parked and made after it. Within twenty minutes, we found him standing stone still facing us at twenty yards, an easy shot, but he was young and too small, so we passed again.
The game I had seen within only a few hours was far beyond any dream, and even though I had yet to take a shot, it was far and away my best day of hunting ever. I sip my gin and tonic, my belly full of kudu meat from someone's previous hunt, and it's off to bed for an early start again tomorrow.
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