The last francolin
A long trek takes a wingshooter to Namibia to fulfil a dream.
Icannot start this story in any other way than by quoting the inspiring words from my Namibian wingshooting benefactor Jürgen Hoffman. “Let’s get a little philosophical about the topic. In his poem, Ash Wednesday, T.S. Elliot writes: ‘Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place’
“This means that Cincinnati is no further than Ogies and Kamanjab no further than the corner Spar. If you have hunted all your francolin species to date with spaniels why do you now want to mix a Boekenhoutskloof Cabernet Sauvignon with Coke Zero?
“Let’s keep the options open. When our spaniel is here, I hope to expose him to francolin hunt- ing and hopefully source some huntable Hartlaub’s closer by. Then we can immerse ourselves in places where the spirits of the past and present mingle with the eternal African sounds of the scops owl, to nourish the soul.
“There is a hammer drilling with 16ga shotgun barrels and a 9.3x72 barrel. It dates from 1888 and its first owner fought for the French in its Légion étrangère and later in the German Schutztruppe in German South West Africa before retiring on the farm Gamis near the Naukluft Mountains. The gun left SWA but I managed to get it back and it has found a place in my safe. Why not use it during your hunt and add another page to the book of memoirs when the sun nestles above the horizon and memories take over time and space? When the memory filters back the bouquet of a fine wine mingled with a faint trail of mopane wood smoke.”
Well, I should have selected that drilling, but I forgot about it until I read through all our correspondence in the aeroplane on my way to Namibia. Instead, from all he guns that Jürgen offered me, I selected a Belgian side by side with 32 inch barrels that kicked the hell out of me with the available 34 gram Nr 5 field loads. But it was too late now. Plans have changed Jürgen told me when he picked me up at Hosea Kutako Airport. We would go straight to Holger Dennler’s Okatumba farm, 80km east of Windhoek. The 16-bore drilling had to wait for another occasion; I was stuck with the 1930 Belgian Fierres.
AT THE BEGINNING
If there is a start to this story it could probably be about eight years ago when I had my first attempt at hunting red-billed francolin. I travelled all the way from Groblersdal to the other side of the Groot Marico where the red bills push their distribution over the Molopo into the red sands of the Kalahari. It was really quite sad the way Brooks, the Springer, looked at me when I missed my only chance with both barrels. If Brooks is still alive today I would like to tell him about the warthogs and the red bills in the thickets along the White Nossob, and I would like to apologise to Polka, my dog, for not taking her along to where “history and poetry are a fitting medium to enjoy a ruby gold from Robertson when the firmament throws its fiery blanket over the glowing embers of the receding flames...” wow – that Hoffman fellow can surely write! It would be a long time before I finally realised the calibre of the man I was corresponding with.
But maybe the story of my love affair with francolin started even further back with my first Natal francolin on the sugarcane farms outside Eshowe, where the pretty little pocket rockets flitted in and out of the strips of indigenous bush, left to protect the waterways, or with my first Swainson’s near Koppies in the Orange Free State. Or maybe it only really started when I comprehended that English Springer spaniels and spurfowl were made for each other, that they bring the best out of each other. Nothing can get a Swainson’s airborne like a red-hot spaniel; or conversely challenge a spaniel’s senses like a tight sitting Cape francolin in the thick and fragrant Western Cape fynbos.
And so the journey began. Shelley’s near Soekmekaar and redwing in the mountains around Dullstroom, greywing in the Drakensberg above Rhodes, Orange River francolin near Vrede, and yes, except for those Orange Rivers, I eventually got all the species over spaniels. Spaniels can do the job quite admirably, but they love the spurfowl best. Patrys was a Swainson’s specialist as Polka is now on Capies. Red-necked spurfowl took several journeys to the Eastern Cape. Outside Groblersdal Patrys and I bumped into the diminutive Coquis. Crested francolin were the first birds I bagged in the thorn veld of Northern KwaZulu-Natal.
We have 11 indigenous species of francolin within the borders of South Africa. Of all these, only the red bills have been eluding me to date. They are very common in parts of Botswana and Namibia, but in South Africa their distribution is restricted to small parts of the North West and Northern Cape provinces – Mafikeng, Van Zylsrus and Postmasburg areas. The red-billed francolin is a dry land species that thrives along dry river riparian thickets and erosion dongas like the Molopo, its tributaries and the associated Kalahari sand veld. Like Cape francolin they have the endearing habit of being tolerant of »
» human activity and entering gardens, they become almost pet-like tame. As with Capies, one can get fooled into believing that it would be easy to shoot them – almost like shooting your neighbour’s bantams. However, nothing could have prepared me for the delightful final outcome.
ELUSIVE RED BILLS
I really battled finding a place where I could hunt red bills and was getting a bit despondent. Maybe that was why Jürgen decided to help. The logistics of getting Polka and my own shotgun into Namibia were far too daunting for this Overberg boy. Fortunately Jürgen instantly managed to elevate my mere “collecting” trip to a full blooded safari worthy of being bottled with all the necessary accoutrements such as guns, wood smoke and wine, something that could be cellared and matured for many years to come.
We started corresponding late in 2014, when he ordered a set of my books. Later, when he was in the market for a Springer spaniel I directed him to a ken- nel that was breeding with Murray, one of Polka’s off-springs. Slowly we developed a plan; I would continue the tradition of shooting my francolin over Springers, and what better way than doing it over a spaniel with Polka’s genes! To add more flavour to the hunt, I would use the historic 16-bore drilling, fill out the safari with sandgrouse in the Namib and collect a Hartlaub’s francolin (they are endemic to Namibia and southern Angola). We set a date for the end of August when the francolin season closes and the sandgrouse season opens. So, two years after we had started corresponding I was finally on my way to Namibia.
Well, those were the plans. By the time I reached Namibia the country was in the grips of a severe drought and it was extremely dry out west – the Namib and sandgrouse hunting would have to wait for another visit. Hartlaub’s turned out to be protected and would require special permits. Jürgen bought Felix, the most beautiful and loveable show stock English Springer, whose greatest achievement as a gundog (so far) is probably being mentioned in this article.
The Rio Olympics almost derailed my safari when Dr Jürgen Hoffman was hauled away as the shrink of the Namibian Olympic team. He barely made it back in time to pick me up at the airport.
NAMIBIA – FINALLY!
But here was the White Nossob now in front of me, with Jürgen, Holger and Joel, gun bearer cum picker upper, cum flusher, following along. Talk about pressure – a shrink, a PH with a bloody monster of a camera, and old Joel, all expecting I-donot-know-what from this Overberger attempting to shoot his first red-billed francolin.
With my finger still throbbing after a session with the Belgian shotgun on the clay pigeon range, I was promptly warned not to walk through the grass. “Warthogs”, Holger warned me when I asked why. He had hardly answered my question when a monster of a warthog shot out of the grass at a speed that would make Usain Bolt blush. It neatly took the gap between Holger and Jürgen before disappearing. That incident convinced me to heed Holger’s advice to walk in the road. Holger then told us that a man got killed by a warthog a short while ago. Therefore, he cannot allow his clients to hunt all by themselves. So, we walked up the Nossob chasing those red bills that just kept on running and running and running.
“Too lazy to fly,” said Holger as we crossed over the White Nossob’s sands, hoping to do better on the other side. No warthogs on that side he said, also more trees holding lots of francolin. I missed a good opportunity when a francolin exploded from right under my feet – I took hopelessly too long fiddling with the strange gun’s safety catch. As a result I only succeeded in dislodging a bunch of feathers with the 28g Nr 7’s that I sneaked into the chambers to get away from the mauling that those heavy 34g loads dish out. Well, my shrink said if I had stuck to the number 5’s the bird would have been dead. Blame the ammo, not the man, »
» an obviously subtle strategy to get me back on track again. Focus on the bloody birds, I said to myself, and decided not to engage the safety catch (hopefully no one noticed) as we set off again. A little while later I finally nailed my first redbilled francolin when it tried escaping back to the safety of the river’s warthog side.
My moment of silent reverence was neatly crowned when Holger picked a green asparagus twig, wiped it through the bird’s beak and with the traditional German hunters’ greeting of Weidmannsheil handed it to me with his left hand. I was told I had to respond with Weidmannsdank and stuff the twig in the right-hand side of my cap. It was a very special moment. The long journey was over. At last I had my red-billed francolin.
If there was a gundog involved retrieving the bird or tracking and recovering an animal shot, I would have had to break a part of the twig off and give it back to the handler, who would then attach it to the dog’s collar. If I knew it then, perhaps old Joel should have been wearing something in his collar too.
With the pressure finally off, we continued chasing the red bills and managed to push a covey into some thick grass when they ran out of cover. We sneaked up close and when they took flight I succeeded in bagging a double – the second bird (naturally a longer shot) with the “lighter” ammo. It also happened to be a beautiful adult male (the only one of the morning) with magnificent scimitar-shaped reddish purple spurs. So much for nerves, so much for ammo.
RED BILLS’ BEHAVIOUR
So, what did I learn about the red–billed francolin’s behaviour? Mainly that they behave typically like Swainson’s and Cape francolin. They run like hell but can sit tight when they decide it’s necessary. In the arid and sparsely-covered terrain where I went after them red bills can see you coming from miles away and probably run more and further than they would have when better cover is available. One individual in particular, sticking to the sandier side of the riparian border just kept on running, literally for a couple of hundred meters before we lost the bird. Under drought conditions it is indeed very challenging to hunt red-billed francolin. What really sets them apart from the other two similarly behaving species is obviously their habitat. Therefore it was quite special hunting them under these challenging conditions.
Hot and thirsty after the morning’s scurrying after the birds in temperatures well into the thirties, I couldn’t wait to celebrate the hunt with a cold beer. Always hold the beer in your left hand Holger warned with the congratulatory Weidmannsheil still echoing in my ears. Crimson breasted shrikes, glossy starlings and white-browed sparrow weavers kept us company where we sat on Holger’s stoep eating hartebeest steaks and gemsbuck wors. A huge kameeldoring framed the view down to the Nossob. I will have to visit this place again.
But the secret is out now; the red-billed francolin is probably not my last francolin species. If we spread the margins a little wider to include the entire Southern African sub region, the Hartlaub’s come into play again. In one of the books in Jürgen’s library I saw photographs of the male Hartlaub’s, a most different and beautiful bird. Perhaps I should take out that special permit after all. A Hartlaub’s would look good in my trophy room next to the red-billed male. There is a very white-feathered subspecies of red-necked spurfowl that occur along the Kunene River. In fact, studying Roberts’ book on the geographic variation of Southern African birds, I have noticed that there are five different subspecies in the far northern parts of Namibia. Now that could enrich a wingshooter’s bag. Throw in that funny-looking hooked casqued guinea-fowl and I could happily spend a lot of time up there. I will be back. Weidmannsheil!