CAMPFIRE TALES...

THE bright flames of our refuelled campfire penetrated the darkness to draw flickering reflections from the oiled metal of my battle-scarred .300H&H propped against a tree-stump nearby. This caught Dave Lincoln’s eye. “You shoot pretty well with that old workhorse,” he said. “Well,” I replied, “kind of you to say so, but I’ve had it long enough and shoot it often enough to know its trajectory out to 300 yards or so. Most hunters who know their rifles do pretty well with them.” “True,” agreed Dave, “As the old saying goes, beware the man who has but one rifle.”

During this conversation, I brought up Karamojo Bell’s story of his wanting to get rid of 6 000 rounds of .318 ammo of which three out of every ten misfired. Every evening, he would stand at the edge of Lake Victoria where hundreds of fish-filled cormorants (fast, but straight-flying birds) flew over at well-beyond shotgun range. He’d fire away at them with his .318 Westley Richards, averaging six hits for every ten shots. A couple of highly impressed onlookers asked to examine his ‘shotgun’ and were astonished to find it was a rifle. “I don’t know,” I concluded, “Maybe Bell exaggerated his score a bit. As a youth, I tried it a few times with a .22 but was never successful.”

“Well,” grinned Dave, “let me tell you a story. I conducted a bird-shooting safari for a wonderful British client and his family and friends. He had done several safaris, deriving immense pleasure from sharing the breath-taking Botswana bush with those closest to him. I contracted Bird Safaris, the Botswana outfitters, for use of their excellent Tsumtsum hunting camp in the NG18 hunting block north of the Okavango. The block comprises superb delta flood plains, riparian forests and mopane woodlands which teem with wildlife and birdlife.

“There’s a huge pan, a well-known waterfowl hangout, near the old Safari South Four Rivers hunting camp. We decided to arrange a classic ‘pan surround’ duck shoot. During the preceding evening, around the campfire, as the beverages flowed, much animated discussion and strategic planning took place. My client’s fervent ambition was to bag a high-flying spurwing goose with his trusty Aya 12-bore.” Smiling, Dave paused to wet his throat with a swig of beer.

“At dawn, my PH colleagues Chris Dandridge, Clint Gielink and I packed the dozen-or-so highly excited and ambitious ‘guns’ plus the crew of trackers, camp staff and hangers-on, into the Land Cruisers and set off. The vehicles groaned under the weight of passengers, guns, ammunition, and chop boxes. After a magical early-morning drive through the sage-scented bush, we arrived at the pan all brimming with expectations of a hot-barrelled shoot and a huge bag of waterfowl.

“On gazing across the pan, which was teeming with Egyptian geese, teal and other species, including a few haughty spurwing, our excitement rose to fever pitch. Numerous hippos honked noisily at our intrusion upon their peaceful, idyllic domain. The strategic placement of the guns was carried out with almost military precision and zeal. Chris, Clint and I spaced ourselves evenly among the assembled hunters. Our trackers and camp staff hunkered down close to each gun, ready to retrieve the masses of fallen birds. When all were in position with open cases of ammo beside them, we waited with baited breath for the ‘hunt master’ to fire the opening shot.” Dave’s speech was animated now, his raised hands gesturing.

“Meanwhile, unobserved by us during our careful gun-placement manoeuvres, the masses of waterfowl had been quietly paddling away from the shallows into the more central expanses of the huge pan. Carrying my beloved .416 Rigby in case of a hippo attack, I took an elevated position for optimum view. Only then did I realise that we were about to experience a lemon.

“The opening shot sounded, and the tension around the pan became almost palpable.

Nothing happened! There was no roar of a thousand wingbeats; no dense clouds of waterfowl blackened the sky. A few teal and Gyppos rose unhurriedly from the waters nearest the hunters, a few guns barked; even fewer birds fell. Hundreds of ducks and geese simply paddled, en mass, to the distant centre of the pan, far beyond any threat from the guns. Thus ended the keenly anticipated onslaught; we had but a pitiful halfdozen bedraggled specimens to show for our precision-strategized offensive.” Dave dropped his hands in an attitude of defeat. Laughingly I said, “So much for Great White Hunters, huh?”

“Well, not quite…” said Dave, forefinger aloft. A group of spurwing geese rose languidly from the centre of the pan then gained height before heading for quieter waters. Out of sheer frustration, or perhaps simply for the hell of it, I mounted my .416 to my shoulder and took a flyer at the departing geese. You can imagine our astonishment when a huge spurwing folded up and plummeted into the shallows… Examination revealed that my .416 bullet had drilled it squarely through the neck!

That evening, around the campfire, my British client was understandably a bit peevish, initially, but sundry libations soon brought his natural good humour to the surface, and he cheerily enthused about my lucky fluke shot.

A book of hilarious cartoons by Fred Mouton that showcases a collection of the funniest moments published in Magnum, together with choice extracts, a few articles and even some material only ever seen in the Magnum Annual ‘80/81.

You don’t have to be a hunter or shooter to appreciate Fred Mouton’s artistry and keen sense of humour; if you know South Africa and its (sometimes odd) peoples, it will have you chuckling from cover to cover, and often laughing out loud. This collection will be enjoyed by the whole family – young, old and in between.

“Putting this book together has been so much fun – the hardest part was choosing what had to be left out!”

Available on the magazine rack at your usual Magnum retailer