It was a hard day of hunting. Kobus Senior, my hunting guide to date, had to take the day to sort out billing with his Spanish clients, so I was to hunt with his twenty something year old son, Kobus Junior. Despite Kobus Senior’s advanced age and recent hip replacement, he was a force to be reckoned with when it came to hiking through the brushveld, but Korbus Junior would raise the bar somewhat. Kobus Junior had been guiding the Spaniards for the past ten days, taking a nice eland, and numerous warthogs. The Spaniards were crazy for warthogs! The Spaniards were a jovial bunch, a perpetually smiling eighty-five year old and his brother in law, who weren’t the best of marksmen. Kobus Senior was forever ribbing them about their ten shots per animal, versus my single shot smack dab heart success, but I couldn’t join in the joking, as my next shot had every chance of ruining my perfect record thus far.
I was awoken yet once again by a soft knock on the door, and quickly dressed and joined the charming Potgieter family; Kobus Senior and his lovely wife Susan, and thee cutest couple in the world, Kobus Junoir and his wife Janita. With Janita driving, Kobus Junior and I piled into the Yamaha Rhino four-wheeler and headed off in the dark. Within half an hour and increasing light, Kobus spotted some male kudu tracks, and he gave Janita yet another kiss and sent her back to camp. We set off immediately in the steep and rocky brushveld, Kobus tracking the kudu quickly, picking up scat and seeing how wet and warm it was, showing me where they’d been browsing. I had my doubts, that perhaps it was all abit of showmanship for the out-of-towner, but within an hour of hard walking, we could hear them moving through the brush just ahead of us. Within another hour of careful stalking, Kobus spotted one male in the thick brush at about three hundred yards watching for whatever was following, so we laid low behind some brush and waited him out. After thirty minutes, the kudu finally moved out and started to head towards us, but quartering. We figured he had to pass through one clearing that would give me a clear shot, but not for long as I wouldn’t be able to see his entire body the shooting lane was so small, and at one hundred and fifty yards, it wasn’t an easy shot, but Kobus was confident as my shooting thus far had been exemplary. I sighted on the shooting lane and waited, and waited, and waited, and there he was, there was the heart shot, just atop the foreleg, coming into view, and the kudu stopped, and I aimed and exhaled and....he was gone. It was not even a count of “one thou....” and that was it. So we scrambled to place ourselves for another shot, and soon had a nice bead on him, but Kobus advised me to wait until he stopped. I watched this beautiful creature move along, my reticule firmly planted on his heart, and waited, waited, and Kobus even whistled, but it was not to be. And the kudu disappeared behind some brush. At that point, the adrenaline was coursing through my veins. I had never seen a kudu bull before, as large as an elk or moose, and infinitely more graceful, with those long spiral horns, Kobus guessing going well over fifty inches. We moved quickly to reposition, but the second kudu made us and they were off. It was difficult enough to stalk the wary kudu, but to go after spooked kudu was simply a waste of time.
Hunting in Africa is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. My normal thrashing grounds, Nova Scotia, is thick brush, full of dead fall and marsh. Unless you happen along a well used trail or road, or perhaps a rare stand of hard wood, you are not moving quietly through the Nova Scotia woods. Stalking is tough. And if you get a few hundred metres of visibility, consider yourself most fortunate, as it’s often down to the single digits. In South Africa, the bush can be thick, but it’s relatively easy to move along noiselessly if one is careful, and while visibility is often below twenty metres, it frequently opens to a hundred, a few hundred, or even a thousand metres, and often, quite a lot more, with plenty of bushes and tall grass to make a stalk a viable reality. And whereas a white tail deer in Nova Scotia is a rare site, in South Africa you will see a vast variety of exotic game, while not in every valley, quite frequently. To hike though the South African brush, rifle in hand, with the warmth the sun and exotic calls of the birds, with the chance to see zebras and wildebeest and impala and warthog and kudu and blesbuck and leopards and lions, takes hunting to a level that is almost overwhelming. One has to shake his head frequently and ask “Am I really here? Am I really doing this?”
So giving the kudu a pass, Kobus points to a far off mountain and we make for it. Along the way, a herd of thirty or more wildebeest passes through a wide open savana at our side and we stop and watch. But the herd are curious and stop and actually close to within fifty yards of us, the large male presenting a perfect broadside shot, but I don’t take the bait. As we hike, Kobus point out the various flowers and birds and their bizarre breeding habits, and I feel like I’m on an elementary school nature hike. Being a smart ass, I point out some female kudu I spotted on a mountain top some two kilometres off to the right. Kobus claims we can make it before lunch, but of course we have to walk down into the next valley first and make our way around, to make the most of the wind. Some six kilometres later, we are on the kudu hill, and spot impala. If the impala spot us and break, they’ll spook the kudu, so we wait them out. A pair of warthog pass within ten feet totally unaware of our presence. The impala moves off and we make towards the summit and the kudu, but they have us made at four hundred yards. We close nevertheless. At twenty yards, the kudu still haven’t broke, but they continue to watch us and start to bark in the deepest most impressive bark I’ve yet heard, then they break. We work our way down the mountainside, and watch another trio of warthog feed while waiting for our ride back to camp, and lunch.
I’m ready to call it a day but Kobus knows where a rather large kudu often spends his late afternoons, so reluctantly I pull on my footwear and off we go. With Janita driving once again, we head off. About a half hour later, Kobus spots blesbuck in the savannah a few kilometres off, so we head after them on foot. I see no possible way to get within shooting range, but Kobus shows me that if you bend ninety degrees at the waist and walk in a duckwalk, you can keep your head below the top of the grass, so we do this for at least nine hundred metres. My back aching and thighs giving out, they are still way out of range, so we literally crawl, through the thick grass, for another five hundred metres, no kidding! Finally popping our heads up, the blesbuck are still at one hundred and sixty yards, but I decide to take the shot. I’m not as steady as I’d like as my legs are quivering and my back is screaming, as I’m hunched over to shoot, but we identify that the old female has the largest rack, and it’s far better to take her than the lone male in the herd, leave him for breeding. “Crack” of the rifle, “thump”, the sound of the bullet hitting, and down she goes. It’s a little high to be considered a perfect shot, but the result is the same.
We call Janita to come back to collect the blesbuck and we head up the side of yet another mountain in search of kudu. My back and thighs are screaming in protest, but we manage yet another mountain range, only to spook the largest male kudu myself, or my guide, had ever seen. We watched in vain as he traipsed elegantly up and over the next ridge. We stalked and followed his tracks through one valley and up the next hill, eventually working our way back around to the same valley we took the blesbuck, in the setting sun. It was getting too dark and I just want to call Janita to come get us, but Kobus spots a herd of Grant’s Hartebeest, something very high on my wish list for their curved horns, at least three kilometres off. I don’t see how we can feasibly get within range before it’s pitch black, but we're off! Somehow Kobus gets me to just over a hundred yards and I can still make out enough details in the waning light to place the shot, and I aim, breath out and hold it, and squeeze, and make yet another text book shot dropping the most gorgeous hartebeest in her tracks.
Janita gets the Yamaha Rhino stuck in a warthog hole trying to get to us in the dark, and Kobus heads off into the night to help her, as I stand guard over the hartebeest in the pitch black, wondering if the smell of death will bring one of the many leopards we keep crossing paths with, or one of the many hyena packs, or perhaps even lions. I have the gun, but I can't see to shoot.
I’m writing this back at the lodge so it must have worked out, my legs some twenty plus kilometres more tired than they were this morning.
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