NOVEMBER BUFFALO
Father and son summer hunt
THE MORNING SKY was showing the first traces of pink when we saw the herd, dark bodies in the distance, drifting across the track. We waited until they disappeared into the mopane trees, jumped off the vehicle and followed them. My watch showed five minutes past five, a good time to be in the veld and already stalking your quarry.
This was the third day of the hunt with hot and humid Lowveld weather where, no matter how much water you drank, and irrespective of how much you sweated, you were always hot. And the wind. It seemed that no matter what we tried, it always swirled and carried our scent to the buffalo, we just could not get lucky.
My son Matt and I have hunted together since he was old enough to walk in the veld. We have tramped many kilometres and shared lots of campfires. Hunting buffalo has always been our dream. Over the years I have learnt that if something is important to you, best you do it. They say time waits for no man and this is especially so when you are on the wrong side of sixty. So we decided to hunt two buffalo cows, one for each of us, a father and son hunt. Of course we would have loved to be hunting trophy bulls but our budget did not stretch that far. The area we hunted had the Kruger National Park just across the road and the resident PHS spoke of regular visits by elephant and lions.
We arrived at the lodge on the last Friday in November and quickly headed off on our adventure. It was 40°C and I was glad to be sitting in the cab of the truck and not on the open seat fitted to the back of the vehicle. Of course Andre Espach, the outfitter, and the professional hunters, Johan and Wian, both Espachs, wanted to see if our rifles were sighted in. Matt went first with the .375H&H, shooting off the sticks we always use. As I had set the scope for 100 metres it was spot on at the 80 or so metres where the target had been placed. We planned to use this rifle for the initial shot. It had a 4x scope and was loaded with 300gr Nosler Partitions
for the first shot, followed by 300gr Hornady solids for the second and any subsequent shots. Both loads ran to just under 2 500fps. I then shot the other rifle, my open-sighted .404 Jeffery, which was to be used by the backup hunter. The shot landed close enough to satisfy the gallery. I had loaded 400gr Stewart softs and 400gr Woodleigh solids, both at 2 160fps and was shooting to point of aim at 50m.
IT HAD RAINED recently. The ground was muddy in places, some roads had washed away and the dams were full to overflowing. The mopane trees with their new bright green leaves contrasting with the dark grey bark were beautiful, and there was a freshness in the air. We saw our first herd, some standing but most lying down in the shade of the forest, trying to escape the heat. The combination of an overcast sky, the trees’ deep shadows and the black bodied buffalo made it difficult to identify individuals without binoculars. It confirmed the choice of a scoped rifle as imperative for a well placed first shot.
We stalked closer and waited patiently downwind for the buffalo to move. Matt placed the .375 on the shooting sticks then scanned the herd. This was the first time he had seen a buffalo through a rifle scope. He turned to me, grinning, and held out a hand showing the shake it had developed.
We all smiled, understanding the feeling. It was not long, perhaps five minutes, before I felt a breeze hit the back of my legs. Moments later the herd was up and gone.
EARLY THE NEXT morning we drove to an area with a small dam that was frequented by buffalo. We parked the vehicle and followed a game track through a dry riverbed. As we walked up the bank we saw an almost mature buffalo bull, together with a calf, about forty metres away from us. In the distance, the rest of the herd crossed the track, unaware of us. This bull had seen our movement, or perhaps a reflection, and took an inquisitive couple of steps towards us, tossing his head. This got our attention and we stood, rifles at the ready. With one more shake of his head he turned and ran, the calf trailing behind him. We found the herd’s tracks and, after following them fruitlessly for two hours, we returned to the vehicle in a long looping walk. Even in the shade
it was hot, and the water from the truck’s cooler box was most welcome. We did manage to get onto a herd later on our way back to the lodge, and Matt was up on the sticks several times but there was no shot. Identifying an old cow without a calf, then waiting until she stands clear of any other buffalo, is a very selective form of hunting.
The afternoon was very much a repeat of the morning. Long walks, a couple of stalks with Matt up on the sticks waiting for his chance, and then the wind messing it up for us. It was suggested that Matt and I split up to improve our chances but I declined the offer. Matt and I hunted together, there was no way that I would not be there when he shot his buffalo. It was a very dejected group of hunters that headed back to the lodge so I decided to lighten things up by making the statement that as from the next day, this area would be known as Tweebuffelkoeieopeendagmorsdoodskietfontein, a play on the fabled Afrikaans town.
The following morning we were onto a herd early, the wind was in our favour and I was expecting good things to happen. We initially followed the herd, then moved alongside and eventually in front of them, trying to predict their direction of travel, always being careful to stay downwind. The herd drifted through the forest, with individual animals stopping for a moment to graze and then moving on. Matt would pick an opening and wait for an animal to stop. I could hear Johan whispering, “No, young cow” or “Bull” or “Wait, there’s another cow behind.” After several of these almost-moments I saw that Matt was steady and confident, and that it was only a matter of time.
We stood in the shade, Matt on the sticks with Johan and Wian looking through their binoculars. Our position was excellent, with two openings about thirty metres away. The herd drifted in and an old cow stopped in the opening but as Matt pushed the safety off, a second cow stood in front of her. The old cow moved and as luck would have it stopped in the second opening. Matt repositioned slightly and as she stood broadside, he shot her. In an instant she whirled around and paused with her rump towards us. Matt had immediately cycled the bolt and now raked her with a solid. She ran off and away from us. The herd bunched up and ran downwind, straight towards us. We stepped into the sunlight so that they could see us and shouted. They stopped briefly, perhaps ten or so metres away then ran off to our left.
I BROKE THE tension by hugging Matt and congratulating him – to be honest we were both emotional. We waited fifteen minutes for the anticipated bellow but heard nothing. I removed the scope from the .375 and we walked to where the cow had stood. Following the running spoor we found big blobs of frothy, light coloured blood, a good sign of a lung shot. Within 50m these disappeared to be followed by much smaller spots, which combined with the hard ground made tracking more difficult. I always experience a sense of unease until the animal is found. There is always a measure of doubt, however small, and as much as you are sure of the shot, it’s never over until its over.
We were still following the spoor when we heard her bellow, to our left and downwind from us. We immediately walked in her direction. She gave out a second mournful bellow – a sound that stirs my soul. She had wedged herself between two small trees and as we approached, Matt shot her in the neck. Thereafter both he and I put in extra shots just to be sure.
Of course there were the usual congratulations, some photographs and then the recovery of the animal. We were back at the lodge by 11am and, after a glass of rehydrating electrolytes, coffee and a sandwich, plus a short rest, we were ready to find my buffalo.
IN THE EARLY afternoon we came across a herd lying in the shade and studied them from perhaps 80m away. As usual, it did not take long for the wind to change direction and they were off. We decided to let them be and not to pressure them, as they would not go far in the heat. We drove around looking for fresh tracks or dark shapes under a tree but found nothing.
Much later we returned to the area where we had seen the herd. Johan and Wian took an educated guess as to where they might be and we slowly began our stalk, walking into the wind and at times across the wind, stopping regularly and glassing. There was an opening in the trees, dominated by a large ant heap. The herd was spread out and just to the left of the sand structure stood an old cow. I placed the .375 on the sticks and as she turned I shot her under her left leg and low, into her heart. She reared up then collapsed onto the ground. The herd milled around, unsure what to do. Johan and Wian sent them on their way with a couple of shouts and some arm waving. A young bull looked as though he might be more than a little interested in us but, as the rest of the herd moved away, he followed them. The 300gr Nosler Partition had done its work. Matt, this time shooting the .404, put in a raking safety shot, as did I with the .375.
THERE ARE ALWAYS mixed emotions when an animal is hunted. There is happiness and elation but also a bit of sadness for the animal that gave its life, and a certain emptiness that comes with finally doing something so long in the planning, and wondering what’s next. Later that evening, sitting around the fire I was content to relax and listen to the discussions on buffalo, calibres and rifles. Matt showed me the exercise app on his phone – we had walked over 40 kilometres.