Museum leopard hunt
A hunt is never over, until it’s over...
It was November in the Game Management Area of the Nyampala Luangwa Valley in Zambia and I was standing by the passenger-side door of my employer, Zambia Safaris’ truck. I was saying farewell to Mark Powell, a hunter/biologist and taxidermist. We had just completed an unusual hunt for a museum in the USA and among the specific animals hunted were a prized male leopard, as well as a female. Mark had personally skinned and packed each specimen into a large crate and loaded it on board. Our driver was ready to go, so with a final goodbye wave they left for Lusaka.
Basil, my new client, had arrived the previous day and my last safari for the season loomed. That night was Basil’s first in his thatched hut. The weather had changed, it was hot and humid with dark clouds indicating rain. There was no breeze, and wet with sweat, we all tossed and turned in our beds, veiled under mosquito nets.
The next morning I joined Basil in the dining area which had a view over the Luangwa River. The water level had dropped and hippo congregated in pools. We had some planning to do. Due to work commitments in the USA, Basil had booked a late hunt and this prolonged the end of our season. My staff was not happy. They needed to return to their villages, hoe the land and plant crops. Tempers were short and they nagged me to get the safari over with.
At the top of Basil’s wish list was a leopard. It had to be found and shot on its natural kill, not on bait. He also had other animals on his list and in the coming days these were ticked off, while searching for a leopard. The hunt hurried by; buffalo, elephant and plains game were salted and neatly labelled for shipment. The days began to drag, rain fell and it got cooler. Then the sky cleared and the bush took on a new complexion. Vivid greenery sprouted everywhere, but still there were no obvious signs of leopard. No tracks, no alarm calls from baboons, impala or puku that roamed this beautiful setting.
AT LAST
For 18 days we search nooks and crannies of shaded thickets for evidence of a spotted cat. Then, two days before his safari was to end, our luck changed. My Cruiser was parked on a riverbank and the four of us left on foot; Labkin our skinner, White the tracker, Basil who was armed with his .30-06, and myself with my .375 H&H. And there, in a shallow dry washaway that snaked between shrub mopane we found fresh tracks imprinted in the damp sand. Knowing that the leopard was in the vicinity, we sat down, had lunch and listened for puku, impala and guinea-fowls’ alarm calls. As time went by, a herd of elephant entertained us. Two playful calves stumbled jambold towards us. They stopped, raised their ears, then squealed and shook their heads. The matriarch cow was not far behind and sensing danger, rushed to their assistance. We scrambled to safety.
Later, a herd of impala approached our spot. The harem, golden in the sun, was led by a solitary male, who was crowned with magnificent horns. His females suddenly hitched down, ready to jump high. They peered about nervously. We smiled and then lay down until the night finally arrived. An hour passed and then we heard a grunt. My trackers pointed towards the outline of the riverine thicket, “Nyalubwe,” (leopard), they said in chorus. Another hour passed while hippo snorted in the river. Like ghosts we got up, shouldered our rifles and backpacks, and led by Labkin we left quietly. The ground was potholed by hippo and we stumbled in the dark. Our leopard suddenly called and we froze. We could clearly hear his loud, saw-like grunting. With a spring in our steps and high hopes we returned to camp. That night we were excited as we sat round the fire, beers within easy reach. I watched a silent Basil, deep in thought, as he cleaned his rifle and took a sip of beer. Satisfied, he raised the rifle to his shoulder, took aim and shot his imaginary leopard.
The next morning we left camp before first light. It was the last day of Basil’s hunt. The rain began to sheet down and I stopped to let Labkin and White into the cab of the truck. They shoe-horned themselves in
and with the lights guiding the way we followed the tracks. After a while Labkin shouted over the noise. I again stopped and this time I also cut the lights. The dark outlines of mopane trees were visible through the gloom. The downpour was relentless and we sat crammed together in miserable silence. Suddenly the sky changed colour and the rain stopped.
When it was light enough for legal hunting we clambered out of the truck. The smells after the rain were intoxicating, and wet black cotton-soil stuck to the soles of our boots. We trudged on until we finally entered the leopard’s ‘vicinity’. Waterbuck stared as we made our way into the thicket and searched for tracks. We found nothing in the dense jungle-like bush. The rain had washed the ground clean and the odds of finding any signs of the leopard were stacked against us. But, we carried on under the leafy canopy where visibility was down to 30 yards.
After walking for a while I rounded a pillar-like termite mound and then stopped dead in my tracks. “Nyalubwe...” I stammered. The leopard was within easy shooting range and lay on a tree trunk that had grown at an angle. White and Labkin sank down. Carefully, I set up the sticks and rested my glasses on top. My ‘bush eyes’ just knew after many years of hunting that this animal was fast asleep in a shaft of warm sunlight. Basil rested his rifle over the sticks, released the safety and peered through the scope. I watched anxiously as the end of his barrel probed about. A few tense seconds passed, then he whispered, “I can’t find it!” Hoping that he won’t notice the tremor in my voice, I whispered: “The tree at a lean. He’s halfway up the trunk.”
He snuggled his eye to the scope, breathed in and with the rifle in the sticks, steadied himself. Time stood still, my nerves were on edge... Basil’s shot never came! He turned to me and said, “I can’t place the bullet in his shoulder!”
My glasses raised, I saw the leopard, blood smeared on his paws and jaws. I glanced up. Wedged in the fork of a branch was his bushbuck kill. We waited for him to stand and offer the perfect shot. Luck was not on our side. He stirred briefly and in a flash of spotted gold, dropped to the ground. Body hidden behind low bushes, tail in the air, he dissolved from sight. With a plan in mind we quietly returned to the vehicle. I drove out of the leopard’s earshot and stopped.
We cut poles and long grass and loaded them on board. Labkin blazed a mark on a tree and Basil fired his .30-06. The bullet hit dead centre. Confi- dent with Basil’s shooting, but time not on our side, we raced back. With the riverine thicket in view I slowed to a quiet idle and stopped on the edge. Tension in the air, we off-loaded the grass and poles and carried them inside the thicket. As a team, we quickly and quietly built a blind. Seated on two camp chairs we took our positions with a view through the portholes onto the ‘leopard’s tree’. With the task completed Labkin and White sneaked back to the truck and waited for the hunt to unfold.
THE WAIT
Basil loaded his rifle and I cleaned my binocular lenses. Our bush hats were stuffed into the portholes to hide any move- ments and I whispered to Basil: “You will only get one shot. So, take your time! Aim for a rosette on his shoulder.”
My hat squashed down and glasses raised, I squinted through the gap. Flies circled the bushbuck’s carcass. Our surrounds stilled as night began to ease out the day. A francolin with its raucous, “ko-waaak, ko-waak!” took flight. Moments later, like magic, the tom appeared and padded quietly towards us. He stopped below the tree, looked up and took stock of his kill. He then lay in the grass, vanishing from sight. Half an hour passed and shooting light began to fade. My nerves started to twitch.
Suddenly, from the base of the angled tree, a blaze of dark grey leaped up onto the trunk. The leopard’s tail lashed as he glided half-way up and then paused. The distant rumble of approaching rain grew louder and a few drops fell. I signalled to Basil. He smiled as he removed his hat from the port- hole and eased his rifle through. With my glasses still raised I saw that the leopard stood dead still, listening. Concerned about the fading light and oncoming rain, I whispered, “You better shoot!”
Just as Basil was taking the shot, rain suddenly poured down, instantly soaking us. His missed shot rang in my ears. I watched through the veil of water as the leopard turn and with silky smooth movements ghosted down the trunk. The animal hesitated only briefly to look in our direction and then vanished. Dumbfounded we sat in the rain and waited, but he failed to return within legal hunting time, which is half an hour before sunrise and half an hour before sunset. The horizon darkened, our time was over and we left the blind. Disappointed we trudged in the rain back to the truck and returned to camp.
AN ENDING
The next day, before first light our party left camp for the airport, Basil’s luggage packed in my truck. The rain had abated and in the morning gloom we decided along the way to quickly sneak into the leopard blind. As daylight filtered in, I raised my glasses and noted that the tom had returned during the night and fed on his kill. But Basil’s hunt was officially over, so we returned to the truck and followed the Luangwa River to our safari headquarters at Chanjuzi. His charter plane stood on the airstrip, ready to fly him to Lusaka. The pilot handed me an envelope marked “urgent” in a big scrawl. I read it immediately while Basil and my crew looked on. It read: “Please, before you pack up camp you must hunt a leopard. It must resemble in size the male hunted by the biologist.”
We raced back and entered the blind as dusk set in. White and Labkin watched in suspense. Basil missed again...
Lining up the iron sights of my .375 H&H on the leopard, I squeezed the trigger and our season finally ended.
Suddenly, from the base of the angled tree, a blaze of dark grey leaped up onto the trunk.