SAKKIE: A HUNTER’S STORY
Steps in a journey of triumph over tragedy
Rekindling a flickering flame
TTH ISI S THE story of Sakkie, a man w hose dream of being a professional hunter was cut short by a single gunshot that shattered his left leg.
I met Sakkie when PH Neil Pretorius fetched me for a two-day excursion into the bush. Sakkie hailed from a town in the Western Cape and had ridden all the way to Port Elizabeth on his motorbike. Neil had already told me how his friend had lost a leg in a hunting accident through no fault of his own, and now had an artificial leg. The traumatic incident had occurred four years earlier and caused Sakkie to lose all interest in hunting, the outdoors, and anything to do with firearms. But now a flicker of the old flame was beginning to flare once more and Neil wanted to get his friend back into the bush and hunting again. I felt honoured to be a part of this endeavour.
We headed north in the Land Cruiser, our destination the foothills of the distant Zuurberg Mountains, a leisurely trip of about an hour and a half. Our accommodation would not be the 5-star lodge used by the overseas clients of Tootabi Hunting Safaris, but a large shipping container converted into a comfortable three-roomed cottage. Owner/outfitter Loodt Buchner kindly allowed us to sleep here and hunt a warthog or two.
The three of us were itching to get into the bush, so our gear was soon unpacked and the rifles made ready. Since our primary objective was for Sakkie to shoot a warthog, he would use Neil’s .270. My intention had been to use a .50 calibre muzzle-loader but, due to ominous black clouds and a light drizzle, the conditions were not favourable for hunting with black powder; I decided to carry only my camera. I was pleased to see Neil sling his .458 Lott over his shoulder because we would be wandering around in buffalo country.
With Neil leading, we walked across the open hilltop then began a slow descent into the huge valley. Sakkie brought up the rear and I watched with interest how he coped with the broken ground. He did just fine – in fact, better than I was doing; my 80-year-old eyes struggled to find good footing.
Heading down the slope, we hugged the bush line with the grasslands on our left. Every so often we paused to examine an open patch through a gap in the bush. We had a few moments of excitement when we spotted a warthog but the encounter was brief and in seconds the hog was gone. And so it went for a few kilometres; walk, stop, look, then walk again.
Sakkie brought up the rear and I watched with interest how he coped with the broken ground. He did just fine – in fact, better than I was doing
WHILE THE TWO riflemen were up ahead scanning the bush, I looked across the open plain hoping to spot the animals usually found there. On previous hunts in the area, I had seen springbuck, blesbuck, impala, blue and black wildebeest, and zebra. But now, due to the long drought, the grassland was fast becoming a dustbowl and there wasn’t an animal to be seen.
After a while we were nearing the valley floor when suddenly I noticed that Neil and Sakkie had stopped to glass a distant corner of the parched plain and that Neil had set up the shooting sticks. I hurried over and made ready my camera as Sakkie rested the .270 on the sticks and took aim. I couldn’t see anything out there, but the blast of the shot was followed by the distant thwuk ofa bullet hitting flesh and bone. Seconds later, with a loud cheer, Neil confirmed the successful hit and threw his arms around his friend to congratulate him.
WHEN THEY POINTED out where the warthog lay, I gasped in amazement because it looked half-amile away. Using his binoculars with a built-in range-finder, Neil announced that the distance was only 173 yards – an excellent shot. I grumbled to myself, “I’m too darn old for this longrange stuff; better stick to muzzle-loader ranges where I can count the animal’s eyelashes.”
Leaving Sakkie and me at the spot, Neil set off on the long walk back to the cabin to fetch the truck. While we waited, I again applauded Sakkie for his good shooting, especially considering it was the first time he had fired a rifle in four years.
“Well, that’s not strictly true,” he replied. He explained that in the area where he lives, there has been an explosion in the rock pigeon population, and these birds had formed a habit of resting and messing on the roof of his home, when not feeding in the surrounding wheat fields. So Sakkie had bought an air rifle and kept his eye in by sniping at the pesky birds. “Heck,” he said, “I must have shot about eighty of the blighters.”
Eventually we heard the growl of the truck coming across the veld. Neil picked us up and we headed for the downed warthog. It was a young sow, neatly shot through the neck with no damage to the best-eating parts. Neil swiftly gutted the carcass and, after loading it, we headed back to camp where we hung it in the shade of a tree with a stick holding open the cavity to allow the mountain breeze to cool it down.
With a few hours of daylight left, we headed for the steep hills that rose up to become the Zuurberg Mountains. Neil figured there could be no better way of boosting Sakkie’s spirits than to let him have the pleasure of seeing wild animals in the bush again. As we travelled slowly along the rough road that ran through the jungle-like bush, Neil pointed out places where visiting for
eign hunters had shot various animals, including buffalo.
During our ramble, Neil showed Sakkie deep cuttings in the earth at different places. Some years back, during my first venture into the area, these strange cuttings had mystified me – some had been laboriously dug out but others were blasted through solid rock. The mystery was solved when I learned that the cuttings originally held the rails of the very first train line from Port Elizabeth into the interior. It must have been a wonderful trip through that wild and beautiful countryside.
WE SOON BEGAN spotting animals on the bush-covered slopes surrounding the track. It was strange seeing antelope like gemsbuck in the thick bush but, lack of feed on the droughtstricken plains had such species seeking nourishment in the bush. On one small open hilltop we saw the unusual sight of kudu, impala, bushbuck and a troop of baboons all looking down on us. Later, when we crossed a more open area, we saw herds
of blue and black wildebeest, red hartebeest and blesbuck all milling about together. Although the dams along the valley floor were all bone dry, the swampy ground between them held lush green grass which explained the absence of grazing animals on the dry plains. Then at dusk, we were lucky enough to see a herd of buffalo – a perfect ending to our game viewing. Most importantly, Sakkie had enjoyed every moment.
It was dark by the time we arrived back at the cabin but a big camp-fire soon provided all the light we needed. It had been many months since I’d last sat around a hunting camp-fire, and years since Sakkie had done so. Needless to say, a passing squall of rain was not enough to dampen our spirits – though it ruined the cigar I had saved for the occasion.
The next day, in the early morning sun, we enjoyed coffee and rusks before I hauled out the muzzle-loader for Sakkie to have a few shots. He had never seen an old-fashioned gun in action and looked on with interest as I went through the loading procedure with a light charge of powder for target shooting. I think everyone remembers their first shot with a muzzle-loader. I could see that Sakkie relished the moment, standing there in a cloud of white smoke and taking in the distinctive aroma of burnt gunpowder. His next shot was even more spectacular because, for realism, I used my full hunting load of 90 grains of powder in front of a heavy Maxi-ball. After that shot all the grinning shooter could say was, “Wow, that was terrific!”
I guess you could say that our short, but very enjoyable, interlude in the bush ended with a bang. I am sure the outing has helped Sakkie on his road back to enjoying the bush; the challenge of the chase; and to cherish once again all the things that make a man what he was born to be – a hunter.
Needless to say, a passing squall of rain was not enough to dampen our spirits – though it ruined the cigar I had saved for the occasion