My first leopard

Colonial Rhodesia 1958. I was 18 years old when Mike Reynolds hired me to help him openup his copper claims on the Angwa River, 50 miles northeast of Karoi. We walked the last 20 miles with 20 native porters carrying our katoonda (baggage) on their heads. One of my jobs was to shoot game to feed everybody.

The terrain was rugged with razorback ridges rising hundreds of feet above the crystal clear waters of the Angwa River. Between the ridges were deep gullies with heavy cover. When we reached the claim site, we cut two terraces out of the steep hillside 50 feet above the river. One terrace was for our white man’s camp, the other for the native compound.

My bed comprised four empty maize sacks sewn together to make one large palliassebag which was stuffed with straw. During the day it lay against the wall of the terrace. At night I dragged it closer to the fire, under the stars.

Soon after our arrival Mike returned to Karoi – it was his job to find the finance to open the mine. Mine was to peg the claims and to start cutting a Land Rover track out of the Angwa.

LEOPARD SPOOR

A month after our arrival I was awakened one morning by the raucous chatter of Natal francolins. I sat up on my palliasse, stretched, and began thinking of an early morning cup of coffee. Then my eyes fell on the fresh pugmarks of a leopard. They were clear imprints in the powdery soil all around my bed. My heart missed a beat.

I looked around the camp quickly to make sure the big cat was not still with us, then, sitting quietly on my makeshift bed, examined the spoor in greater detail.

The leopard had been attracted to the gutted bushbuck that I had brought into camp the previous evening. The carcass hung on a single strand of 8 gauge wire from a tree branch behind the camp, but the meat was beyond the leopard’s reach. After examining the bushbuck, the leopard had walked boldly into camp examining anything and everything that took its fancy. Its spoor was no more than a hand’s breadth from the edge of my bed. Did it sniff at my face as I slept?

The following week I hunted an adjacent valley looking, as usual, for bushbuck. The only animals there were to kill in that rugged place were bushbuck and klipspringer. One afternoon I walked quietly and slowly up the Nyashire Gorge, watching, waiting and listening for bushbuck movement in the thick bush up ahead. That was the only way to successfully hunt bushbuck in this kind of terrain; listening more than anything else. Had I heard movement up ahead I would have stalked the sound carefully. Absolute silence was the key to success. But I saw and heard nothing.

On the way back, I moved up the hillside to a saddle in the hills that overlooked a rare gentle basin on the far slope. The veld had been burnt clean and green grass was emerging from the black stubble in the hollow, offering the bushbuck some fresh, green bite.

I crawled on my belly to the lip of the saddle. Only the top of my head protruded above the rocks when I lifted my

eyes, very slowly, to scan the vista below.

On my left side a small stream ran down to the middle of the basin. It created a shallow “v” in the topography. Halfway down there was a dry waterfall. Here, when it rained, the water fell vertically ten feet into a puddle of pebbles which was surrounded by a small amphitheatre of solid rock. Trees emerged from the hollow and, beneath them, grew tall elephant grass and sundry bushes that had not been burnt.

I had learnt to be patient when stillhunting. So I lay quietly on the pebbly ground and slowly inspected the scene below. There was only an hour of hunting light left. I lay there, unobtrusively... listening.

FAMILIAR SOUNDS

After a while I felt, rather than heard, subtle sounds coming from the waterfall. They were familiar yet strange. They sounded like a dog gnawing on a bone. I strained my ears and heard a grunt. Bushpigs? I held my breath and shut my eyes. I concentrated all my senses on the sounds I was hearing. It sounded much more like a dog, but there were no dogs here.

Then I heard a soft growl. It was a pleasant, contented, almost purring sound. The sound a dog or a cat makes when enjoying a meal. It caused the hackles on the back of my neck to rise.

It was a leopard. It could be nothing else. There was a leopard in the waterfall thicket feeding on a kill. Suddenly the adrenaline began to pump. All over my body nerves jangled and all the symptoms of juvenile buck fever became manifest. I had never seen a leopard. Nevertheless I had read all about how dangerous they can be when wounded.

A blackheaded oriole flew across the valley and perched on a treetop above where the leopard lay feeding. It gave vent to its strident, piping call. The bird flew off. Peace returned.

My excitement dissipated and my mind began to func tion constructively. I was well aware that I only had a .22 Hornet in my hands, but it was big enough. To kill the leopard all I had to do was to place a single bullet into a vital organ – the brain, the heart or the lungs. But how was I going to get close enough to do that without being detected? One thing was certain. If I could not see the leopard I could not shoot it.

The intervening ground was covered in small rocks and pebbles, and the stubble of burnt elephant grass. There was no way I was going to get to the edge of the waterfall without the leopard hearing me. One false move, one clink of a shifted stone, one rasp of a foot on a stiff stalk of burnt grass, and the leopard would be instantly aware of my presence.

There must be another way. I could wait and hope the leopard would move out into the open, but I had the feeling it would still be feeding inside the thicket come nightfall.

The sun disappeared behind the western mountaintops. I realised that the only chance I had to get a shot at this leopard was to get it to move out of the thicket, but how was I going to achieve that?

I lay for a few more moments enjoying the comforting thought that my presence was still not known to the leopard.

Then I rose to my feet and picked up a flattish rock the size of the palm of my hand. Gripping it between my thumb and forefinger I sent it flying through the air down the slope. It travelled like a discus and it landed a hundred yards away down the hillside.

I dropped back into my old position and was well hidden by the time the rock hit the ground. Rifle at the shoulder I waited. My heart was pounding once again.

The rock hit the ground with a soft clatter. I had hoped for a much bigger noise that would flush the leopard but nothing happened. However, there were no more feeding noises. Silence reigned. I remained at the ready, hoping that the leopard would slink off up the open hillside on my left, and that it would stop to look back. That would be my chance to shoot. In my mind I was willing it to run out onto the open slope.

A flock of francolins began their clattering calls far below. They were answered by another covey higher up the gorge. These were sounds that told me everything was quiet and peaceful in the valley. They weren’t alarm calls. They were social calls. I reasoned that if I could interpret them as such so would the leopard. Still nothing happened.

For five minutes there was neither sound nor movement from the waterfall.

Then suddenly the leopard heaved itself silently up the trunk of one of the bigger trees and there it stood on a high lateral branch staring down towards the place where the stone had landed.

Despite all the other homely sounds the leopard had been hearing, it understood something else. Something large must have dislodged that stone. The leopard could not afford, therefore, to ignore either the presence of a new prey animal or a potential source of danger.

THE SHAKES

It was a big tom. I could clearly see the tight ballbag under its tail. And it was standing up there on a high branch, broadside on to me, in full view. The white tip of its tail swung gently to and fro like a flashing signal in the fading light. Its head turned first to the left, then to the right, as it scanned the scene below. It was a beauty and it was only 50 yards away.

My body began to shake as I brought the iron sights to bear on that magnificent beast. My heart was pounding like a hammer mill. I set the tip of the front post just behind the leopard’s shoulder and lifted the rear usight into position behind it. Taking up the first pressure on the trigger, I drew a deep breath.

My mind was awhirl with questions and answers. Would the tiny softnose bullet do its job? Was I being irresponsible in attempting to kill a leopard with such a small calibre bullet? None of these concerns, however, really mattered. I was going to shoot this leopard anyway, come hell or high water.

I gently squeezed off the second pressure of the trigger. The rifle barked and the leopard’s body jerked. It turned on the branch as if to execute a controlled descent. Then it lifted its head high and tumbled backwards into the void. There followed the most terrifying growls and roars I had ever heard. The animal was clearly in a rage. I could hear its body thrashing about amongst the thick canes of the elephant grass in the thicket beneath the trees. Then, suddenly, complete silence.

I chambered another round and waited... still flat on my belly, not eager to betray my location by either sound or movement. The goose pimples that covered my forearms were the only constant and visible sign of my physical exhilaration. My eyes were the only part of me that moved. They canvassed every nook and cranny around the waterfall. My ears were attuned to catch the slightest »

There followed the most terrifying growls and roars I had ever heard. The animal was clearly in a rage. Then, suddenly, complete silence.

» nuance of sound. Nothing moved and there was not a sound.

MESSAGE HEARD

Down in the valley below me the francolins were now quiet. The crack of the rifle and the rumbling reverberations of the report that had run up and down the gorges of the hills all round, had long since died away. Its message, conveying the hunter’s presence, had been heard. Every animal and every bird within hearing distance of that shot was, at that moment, standing perfectly still and listening.

The minutes dragged on. I was reluctant to move for several reasons. Firstly, I did not want to betray my whereabouts just in case the leopard was not dead. I did not relish being attacked by an irate wounded leopard with only a .22 Hornet in my hands. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, I did not move because I was deeply afraid. In fact, during those first few minutes after the shot, I was frightened to the very core of my being.

It was only when darkness began creeping over the land that I slipped quietly back into the Nyashire Gorge behind me and returned to our camp. Was the leopard only licking his wound or had he died from it? I decided to go back early the next morning to check on the big tom.

I was up before first light, before there was even a tweet from the local francolins. And I slugged back a mug of sweet, hot coffee. Nerves there were still aplenty and I thought I must be careful. The leopard may still not be dead and its skin was not worth getting myself mauled for.

Before the sun had risen I had found my leopard. It had been dead within minutes of my tiny .22 Hornet bullet ploughing through its heart. My father later had the skin tanned professionally. It was the first of many that, over time, adorned the family home on our farm at Karoi.

This, my first leopard hunt, happened 57 years ago. It was my first real adventure into big game hunting.