a buffalo's scars
Story by Scott Engel
"...fresh tracks, saucer-sized and cutting deep into the soft soil, studded the ground ... "
The tap on the vehicle’s roof came as expected, but none too soon and definitely not without bated anticipation. As the cruiser jarred to a stop, fresh tracks, saucer-sized and cutting deep into the soft soil, studded the ground in the shade of a cluster of mango trees bursting with nearly ripe fruit. The abandoned village of Lilumba showed promise after all. For months, Bushi had told me that we must hunt Lilumba for big dagga boys. I had wanted to, but with the pressures of clients focused on other areas, road-clearing behind schedule, and an extraordinary rainy season, we had only gotten down to this forgotten southwest corner for a few hours two months prior. The one day we had been there, ever so briefly early in the season, we found dagga boy spoor fresh and moist in the low-lying jungle-like terrain of the tobacco shamba where a lone family, hangers-on from what used to be a thriving village before the chief had demanded his community move closer to the main road, eked a living from the fertile riverine soil on the banks of the now
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dry Lilumba river, which during the rainy season fed into the perennial Messinge. But time had not been on our side that day. We followed the tracks of two bulls for three hours, but our morning start had been too late. Eventually, the tracks were lost in the high grass and thick leaf litter despite the best efforts of the hunting team.
Today was a different story. Time was on our side and as the sun sank lower on the western horizon, our foray this evening was simply to see what kind of buffalo activity we could find in preparation for an early start tomorrow. A quick recce to the tobacco shambas yielded valuable information from Saidi whose dark green tobacco plants were assaulted daily by the intruding dagga boys.
"EVENTUALLY, THE TRACKS WERE LOST IN THE HIGH GRASS AND THICK LEAF LITTER..."
“The buffalo are here every day,” he explained in Yao. “A group of five, another group of four, two together, and a single bull.” Good news. We thanked Saidi, bade farewell to this small family and made our way back across a deep, forested gorge to where Alifa and the cruiser waited.
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On the thirty-minute drive back to fly camp, Manfred, Veronique, and I marveled at how quickly the bush had regained its lush green foliage with the advent of the early rains and the coming summer. Cicadas exploded in an orchestral cacophony as we drove under a forested canopy where for reasons unknown to us, these seasonal insects had congregated in a now deafening roar. A warthog sow with two piglets in tow, stared at us unafraid as we drove casually past a permanent pool in a vlei. The hartebeest bull which stood
"...I MARVELED AT HOW QUICKLY THE BUSH HAD REGAINED ITS LUSH GREEN FOLIAGE WITH THE ADVENT OF THE EARLY RAINS ..."
African dusk descended like a curtain, the lights of camp shone through the trees to our left and we slowly turned off the main twospoor track into the recesses of the Messinge riverine thicket.
Nico and Tchau greeted us with warm smiles and all the gentle enthusiasm we had come to expect from these dedicated men of the
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Lipilichi staff. The glow of the campfire lit the understory of the massive, gnarled Pod mahogany that dominated the elevated bank of the lazy Messinge as we dropped ice cubes into our whisky glasses and settled into our chairs, satiating our thirst with the wet welcome of a fine single malt.
Three nights and two full days of hunting lay before us as we settled into our cots later that evening. We would be up at zero-four-thirty for morning ablutions, coffee, and a simple breakfast, before arriving back at Lilumba by six. The ever stoic Bushi grunted “kusimama” with a slight wave of his hand for Alifa to see in the angled sideview mirror. The vehicle stopped and Bushi descended with the slow deliberation of a man who is ready for action, but sagaciously never over-eager. I followed after him.
“Ni ngapi?” I asked Bushi. “How many?” “Nne,” came the reply. Four. Four I thought—one of the groups Saidi had told us about. “Twende.” Let’s go. Our hunting party, now locked and loaded, started on the tracks which first led east, then south and back towards the north and northwest before crossing over themselves in what would become a fourteen-and-a-halfkilometer figure eight by the end of the day.
A drenching midday downpour and three sightings of the dagga boys made for an adventure filled day of hunting. It was my turn to shoot first, Manfred having taken the first shot on a community quota bull two days before. Twice during the course of the day, I had the Lott’s safety off, but the wind was wrong and the bulls busted. Clever boys. We returned to camp with high hopes of cutting tracks from the same group or one of the others the following morning.
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"...BUSHI DESCENDED WITH THE SLOW DELIBERATION OF A MAN WHO IS READY FOR ACTION..."
Photo by Kolby Edwards
“Habari ya asabuhi,” I said to Nico as he sat the hot coffee decanter on the table. Good morning. “Habari ya asabuhi bwana,” he replied. Nico was exceptional and we had grown to admire his enthusiasm and work ethic over the course of the past several months. A diminutive man, barely over fivefeet tall, his winning smile and positive attitude were a welcome offset to my grogginess at such an early hour of the morning.
After a light breakfast, we were off towards Lilimba once again. Fresh tracks from the same group of four bulls, only hours old, were found amidst the ruins of the decaying village huts and dilapidated buildings. Bushi and the game scout disembarked as the rest of us carried on to the end of the road a kilometer away to await the results of their recce. The dagga boys had headed directly toward the tobacco shamba, near to where we now waited. Upon Bushi’s arrival, we readied ourselves for another long walk, but with excitement that the spoor was steaming hot boding success near at hand.
The tracks led us in a more-or-less straight line towards the northeast. Anticipation grew as the wind was perfect and we sensed ourselves gaining ground on the small group of buffalo bulls. Then, the spoor, deeply
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rutted in the wet ground and accompanied by scattered patties of warm dung, turned abruptly to the south, almost back on itself. The northeast wind was still okay, but not perfect, now blowing cross-winded from our left to right. I re-checked my sight and safety as I always do, and my sixth sense told me that action was near at hand. Things began to unfold immediately.
Bushi, two strides in front of me, dropped to a knee without a sound. The rest of us followed suit as two dark shapes manifested in our line of sight. Carefully maneuvering behind a large tree to our right front, Manfred crept up beside me. Slowly, but deliberately, the rifle came to rest on the shooting sticks.
A large bull stood on the side of the hill seventy yards away, a small donga lying between us. The wind was still good—better actually than it had been just minutes before—and the bulls were completely unaware of our presence. From our position, it appeared that the widest of the four bulls was the one presenting the best shot. His sweeping horns were barely visible, partially obscured by a tree, but his right shoulder was mostly exposed despite some small branches that I wanted to avoid hitting.
"Anticipation grew as the wind was perfect and we sensed ourselves gaining ground on the small group of buffalo bulls."
“Are you ready?” I whispered to Manfred. “I’m ready,” came his reply. We had already decided to back each other up—mostly for fun—and had done so on the first rations buffalo taken days before. “Ok, I’m gonna take the shot.”
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The wet thwack of my bullet hitting the bull’s shoulder was drowned out by Manfred’s follow-up shot a second later. My bull was hit hard and ran towards our right. The other bulls, not knowing where the intrusive thundering had come from, began running towards us. In a split second, Manfred reloaded and shot another of the dagga boys for himself. Quick follow-up shots by each of us on both my and Manfred’s bulls and it was over. Words failed us. Emotions overflowed. The two magnificent fallen bulls lay thirty-five yards apart from one another.
"WORDS FAILED US. EMOTIONS OVERFLOWED. THE TWO MAGNIFICENT
FALLEN BULLS LAY THIRTYFIVE YARDS APART FROM ONE ANOTHER. ..."
As the reality of what had happened so quickly and what seemed completely surreal began to settle, laughter and joy were accompanied by back-slapping and congratulations. Manfred, Bushi, and I shared the elation that comes naturally at such times. Vero rushed up to us with hugs and kisses, overflowing with the joy of success after a hard-won hunt.
Admiration and respect for the bulls was a foregone conclusion. We both took time to admire these formidable bovines, going back and forth between them, to appreciate their hard-fought lives and the rugged beauty of their head gear. Manfred’s bull was narrower and slightly older with a scrumcap of a boss. Clearly this bull’s body had channeled all of its horngrowth over the many years of its life into a thick, tall boss. My bull had impressive width, over forty-one inches, with wider, flatter bosses. Both so different, yet both so impressive. Waiting for the cruiser to arrive, I sat silently and stared, then walked around my fallen bull. Battle scars from what must have been an epic fight for
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survival were clearly visible. A large scar on the buffalo’s left hindquarters, a thin rip from his left flank to his hairy sheath, a long-healed wound that left a keloid-like growth over his right eye, and a right nostril split through to its lip all told a story about a fight with lions that the bull had somehow escaped.
None of the accompanying emotion was lost on me. The allure of Lilumba had been fulfilled at last. The beauty of this forgotten corner of Lipilichi had been experienced and lived. The hunt—the very best of its kind—had been a success irrespective of what trophies had been taken. The joy and comradery of hunting with one’s friends in an unspoiled game-rich hunting ground would forever be a cherished memory.
“Nkazi nzuri,” I told Bushi. “Nkazi nzuri Manfred.” Well done my friends.
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Scott Engel is a lifelong African hunter and one of the co-founders of Huntersinc.com. Find out more on Instagram @huntersinc_
Photo by Kolby Edwards
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THE LEGACY OF A PASSION
by Xavier Vannier
After all these years of observation and learning from my father Frank, the time has come for me to guide my very first big game safari on my own. It is January when I meet my client. Didier is animated by the adrenaline that the expectation of tracking a Western Savannah buffalo provides. It is not his first safari experience, so he understands the exciting nature of this hunt.
The next morning, while Didier and I are still getting acquainted in the 4x4, we stumble upon the tracks of a buffalo herd that cut across our narrow bush road. We stop immediately and everyone gets out to judge the freshness of the spoor. Dung still wet, compressed by an errant hoof and urine not quite dry, testify of the proximity of the animals. On the other hand, some of the tracks are imprinted with the feet of a civet cat which leads me to believe that the buffaloes passed by earlier in the night. Suddenly, my chief tracker whistles to me. He has probably found the footprint of a promising male. It’s still early at 07:05, so we start tracking!
We spend nearly three hours on a rather technical tracking job before making contact with the herd. The biotope we find ourselves in is very thick.
"...the time has come for me to guide my very first big game safari on my own."
A dense bako (a small, thick forest), surrounded by a wall of grass, slows down our progress. We approach the buffalo multiple times to identify all the animals of the herd and confirm that it does not contain any large males. The "big foot" which aroused our excitement so many hours earlier seems now to have belonged to an old female. We give up our hunt and return doggedly to the vehicle.
Half an hour later, as our previous excitement has now fully subsided, my windshield receives violent blows from an overhead wooden stick—the one used by my chief tracker who stands in the back of the pickup to communicate with me. I immediately kill the engine because a huge solitary buffalo is standing still very near the track! I tell Didier to get out of the truck silently while I sneak out on the driver side. I realize that I’m holding my breath, as if to prevent my breathing from betraying our presence. There’s no need for binoculars to confirm that we are dealing with a wizened old male. I walk a few dozen meters on tiptoes, avoiding the dead leaves with careful precision to correctly position the shooting sticks. It’s only then that I perceive the reluctance of my newfound friend. He acquires the buffalo in his scope, but despite my affirmation to shoot, Didier doesn’t pull the trigger of his .375 H&H. He whispers to me that he is not sure he wants to shoot his buffalo this way. As a sportsman, Didier aspires to take his shot after methodically tracking a bull in the traditional way and so reserves a chance opportunity like this one only for the last days of the hunt if absolutely necessary. He relaxes and decides not to shoot this bull under the wrathful look of my trackers. I internalize my own relief—what a disappointment it would have been to take such a magnificent animal in these conditions. I silently thank Didier.
In the ensuing days, we make multiple contact with numerous herds. Our emotions range from highs to lows; hope often blends into disappointment, excitement into frustration. Isn't it said that one should be opportunistic in Africa? Was that the lesson we should have learned? Maybe we should have accepted the gift of that first buffalo when the bush offered it to us?
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Finally, we wake on the very last day of the safari, still with no bull in our possession. We leave the camp at 05:30 in the morning to hunt a remote area of the concession. On the road, we bump into a leopard which bounds along the track before stopping in an open area. We observe it for a long time, admiring the contrast of its uniquely spotted skin in the dim light. A little later, while still not fully light, I distinguish an imposing mass in the middle of the road. I don't recognize the silhouette— too small to be an elephant and not slender enough to be a giraffe. However, the animal is clearly a few meters high. A new species? No! A Lord Derby eland standing up on its rear legs tearing off the leafy branches of a shiny Isoberlinia tree. This is the very first time I've seen an eland standing up on its hind legs! For sure, this day will not be like the others.
A few minutes later I see buffalo tracks on the road—without a doubt a herd of more than 40 animals. I stop the engine of the pick-up to check the time and get out to evaluate the tracks. They seem fresh, so we begin to look carefully in the hope of finding dung or other clues when we hear a deep bellowing just a few hundred meters away. They are still very close! We gear up immediately. It’s 06:15 as the tracking begins in the early morning stillness. Judging by the tracks, we feel certain a large male must be in the herd.
We progress silently until the tracks bring us back to the road. Twenty-five minutes later we see dust in the air betraying the herd’s presence. We move closer to the herd until we make contact. The cows graze here and there—a large herd of about 50 animals in total! The main part of the herd is to our left while another part is still on the dirt road. The buffaloes remain calm,
not alerted to our presence as a steady wind now covers the noise of our steps. Suddenly, I see movement in the high grass on our right. I quickly look through my binoculars: a few black, red and brown backs are visible above the grass. For a fraction of a second, I think I see an old male! His image disappears from my view as quickly as it appeared. Is it my imagination playing tricks on me? I’m not sure of anything now.
Nevertheless, we continue to observe them, but the herd is too spread out. I decide to move forward on the trail, hoping that the few animals on our right will join the rest of the herd by crossing in front of us. We prepare for a shot and I brief Didier on what to expect. He is ready to shoot, resting his rifle on the tripod, his breath steady and controlled. Then, a first cow crosses 40 meters in front of us, followed by a second one, and then a calf. Another big buffalo cow appears. The shutter of Didier’s wife Sylvie’s camera freeze the cow in its tracks. The big bovine looks at us with dilated nostrils, intrigued and unsure of what we are as it decides to get closer to us. She approaches to 35 meters. "Don’t move," I say to Didier. 30 meters. "It will stop". Now at 25 meters I feel the nervousness of my team and I whisper for them not to make any movement. The buffaloes have keen senses of smell and hearing but their sight is questionable. As long as we remain motionless and our scent doesn’t reach their nostrils, we won’t be detected. The old cow stops, evaluates us and then loses interest. She ends up crossing the road and joining the rest of her group. Didier has barely caught his breath when another buffalo appears and decides to get closer to us as well. After our first confrontation, I feel that Didier is more confident. The cow approaches but judges that we do not represent any danger and calmly moves off. The last animals in this splinter group are now crossing in single file a little further on, so we carefully move forward accordingly. They are all females accompanied by their calves and a young bull. Suddenly, I distinguish one last animal. It must be the bull! I tell Didier to get ready to shoot on my instruction as I try to estimate
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"A momentary silent confrontation follows. Time stands still. There is nothing in my world now but the buffalo and me."
the trophy with binoculars. A false alarm. It’s only another female which crosses the track in front of us. Then there is nothing. Could I have been mistaken? Could I somehow have mistaken the young bull to be larger than he was? After 8 days of relentless searching and multiple contacts with young buffaloes, it is easy to conjure up an image of an old male and to visualize him being everywhere.
While I stand contemplating an alternative strategy, I hear the grass moving—still on our right. I distinguish a brown mass more imposing than the bodies of the others we have already seen. This animal is definitely mature—there is no doubt about it, but I have no view of its horns. Is it a big female, or could it be the old male of my dreams? Finally, the animal emerges from the sea of grass and stands on the edge of the track only 40 meters in front of us. A magnificent old male! The only word I need to say is "yes”. Didier is ready and squeezes his trigger in a fraction of a second. His rifle roars. The dull thud of the impact follows, characteristic of a bullet that penetrates thick flesh. Our buffalo stumbles and then thunders off—his imposing muscles unfurl as he runs to perceived safety. The rest of the herd runs away and then freezes at 200 meters, facing us like a tightly packed rugby scrum. They size us up as much as we watch them carefully.
My chief tracker spots our bull first. Excitedly, he points to the mortally wounded buffalo. Didier and I approach and he takes a final shot at the bull standing 100 meters away from us. The bull
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appears to collapse in slow-motion. I can already feel the palpable emotion and adrenaline flooding through Didier. We stare at each other with enormous grins. I turn towards the buffalo to observe its final death throes. No, they are not mere spasms! He is trying to turn around, still on the ground, using his hind legs, his head up and his neck muscles contracted. He is looking for us. He will get up, I know it. We must react quickly.
The buffalo is frantic, but an accurate shot is impossible from where we are. We have to get closer. I tell Didier to follow me quickly. 50 meters, 40, then 30. The buffalo gets up in a surprisingly fluid movement. I flick the safety of my weapon and immediately put the bull in my sights. A momentary silent confrontation follows. Time stands still. There is nothing in my world now but the buffalo and me. I do not sense any aggression from the bull, neither in his attitude, nor in his look. Where is it? Where is this aggression that is so often portrayed? We look at each other straight in the eyes as I try to understand. What does he feel? What does he understand about our meeting? A quick word from my chief tracker pulls me out of my stupor and I decide to put an end to this now. I pull the trigger and it’s over. Eight days of hunting. Eight days of doubts. But then, the emotions are released—ten-fold and impetuous.
What I will remember most about this, my first solo safari, are my father’s tears after our return to camp. The tears that so perfectly communicate the pride of a father toward his son and the transmission of an ancestral heritage and a passion shared by four generations of my family.
Far away from my client, when the lights are put out and silence descends upon the camp, I will also cry tonight.
The Vannier family has been a fair chase hunting outfitter in Cameroon since 1971. Find them on Instagram @farosafariclubcameroon
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In Pursuit of the Phantom
by Sue Tidwell
Ducking to avoid a low-hanging branch, I placed my foot in the bare patch of sand, careful to avoid crunching any dry leaves that would give us away. My eyes anxiously darted back and forth -- torn between dodging the brush, scrutinizing our tracker’s every move, and sizing up each tree or large boulder that could offer a port in the storm; if all hell broke loose, I needed to know which direction to run!
On this occasion, hell in Namibia’s Waterberg Plateau Park came in the form of two Cape buffalos and a black rhino, all of which were meandering up the same rocky slope.
My husband Rick’s Cape buffalo hunt turned into more than I bargained for. Like our Tanzanian safari, I had expected wide-open savannas and sparse scrublands, not the thick bushveld terrain that made stalking such dangerous creatures an even more nerve-wracking endeavor.
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"Like a giant table, the plateau protrudes almost 700 feet above the surrounding area, covering approximately 156 square miles of surface area..."
These particular bovines had already outmaneuvered us on several occasions. In fact, the targeted brute had already earned himself the nickname phantom bull for his seeming ability to disappear into thin air. Truthfully, many more colorful names could be applied to the shrewd beast; but they are better reserved for campfire stories. We inched forward – yet again -- in a meticulously slow version of Follow-theLeader as our tracker Elias read the story in the dirt. Emil, our Professional Hunter (PH), was directly behind him, followed by Rick, both with rifles ready. Next in our serpentine formation was yours truly, Emil’s wife Kirstin, and our game scout Mayba.
In many ways, the plateau’s rocky terrain and the thick bush veld were a doubleedged sword; it offered plenty of obstacles to climb or hide behind in the event of a charge, but it also provided scads of concealment for the animals as well. As a non-hunter accompanying my husband, I had no gun. My safety depended on the skill of others – and my ability to scale a tree. Fast!
Just as I straddled some brush while stooping under a branch, Elias stopped, quickly signaling us to do the same. Frozen in my awkward position, I waited. And Waited. And Waited. I didn’t dare move. My heart was racing, knowing the cantankerous unpredictable beasts were nearby. Either that or Elias had eyes on the black rhino -- a species also known for its
"...the targeted brute had already earned himself the nickname phantom bull for his seeming ability to disappear into thin air."
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"...Namibia declared the plateau a nature conservation area in the early 1970s..."
temperamental and aggressive tendencies.
..........
Rhinos might be endangered, but there was no shortage of the prehistoriclooking species in Waterberg Plateau Park. Like a giant table, the plateau protrudes almost 700 feet above the surrounding area, covering approximately 156 square miles of surface area. With steep rocky cliffs forming most of its perimeter, the plateau is difficult to access, making it a relative safe haven for wildlife. Consequently, when Namibia declared the plateau a nature conservation area in the early 1970s, several endangered species – including the white and black rhinos – were relocated there to protect them from predators and poaching. Cape buffalo and many antelope species were also re-introduced.
Aside from the park being relatively isolated and highly protected by antipoaching units, the park’s robust species have very few natural predators. Lions and spotted hyenas don’t live there. The land at the base of the plateau is predominantly cattle and game farms; therefore, these deadly predators are not
tolerated. While leopards and a few cheetahs roam the plateau, they pose little threat to mature and healthy Cape buffalo, rhinos, and larger antelopes. For all these reasons and maybe more, Waterberg’s wildlife populations have soared, allowing them to sell surplus animals to other African communities trying to regrow their wild species. This is part of what makes Waterberg so interesting from a hunting standpoint. Most animals purchased are female and young, leaving far more bulls on the plateau. Hence, most of the approximately 1,000 buffalo roaming the park are high-quality bulls sporting impressive horns. From this excellent gene pool, only ten are allotted for harvest each year. The proceeds from the hunts help pay for anti-poaching efforts, and all the meat goes to feed the rangers and their families who are camped at the plateau’s base.
In the Afrikaans language, Waterberg translates to “water mountain,” which is interesting considering there are no natural water sources on the plateau. While water does collect in natural pans during the rainy season, offering hydration for part of the year, the wildlife ultimately depends on the artificial waterholes placed throughout the park.
With the forested terrain offering limited visibility, the waterholes were a primary starting point for hunts. Game cameras were set up at several locations, and when a harvestable bull was spotted, the trackers could pursue it even hours later.
However, the clever bovine we sought apparently didn’t like a crowd. He and his dagga boy buddy preferred drinking from a puddle caused by a leaking pipe on the edge of the plateau nestled among the cliffs and rock formations.
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They weren’t the only ones. Black rhino, kudu, leopard, and a troop of baboons also frequented the spot.
..........
Frozen in the awkward position, I waited anxiously for our next move, wondering what would happen next. We had already pursued the massively horned phantom bull and its smaller companion on three separate occasions, approximately four hours each time. It had shown up on the game camera the second morning of our safari. Although the tracks were already 8 hours old on this occasion, it was decided that this particular bull was worth an attempt. With Elias in the lead, we followed the tracks uphill over and around rock formations that seemed better suited for Billy goats than Cape buffalo.
The hope was to catch up to the buffalo while still feeding, making it easier for Rick to get a shot at the big guy. That didn’t happen. Their trail switched from leisurely meandering to determined strides. That told Elias and Emil that they were looking for a spot to bed. Our pace, therefore, became painstakingly slow. The change, for me, was a double-edged sword. The snail-like forward momentum made it much easier for me to keep up –without giving us away by my stepping on a twig or brushing against a leaf. Yet, it also meant that the animals nicknamed “black death” were close. Too close.
"We inched forward – yet again -- in a meticulously slow version of Follow-theLeader as our tracker Elias read the story in the dirt."
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Every few steps, Elias stopped our forward momentum so he could listen. Then moments later, he would inch forward again. The rest of us mirrored his slow, meticulous moves until suddenly, he threw his hand up, stopping us dead in our tracks. He pointed to a nearby clump of trees not far away. Frozen in place, partly straddling a dried shrub, I scanned in the direction of the pointed fingers. Yet, I could see NOTHING, and the only thing I heard was the thunderous pounding in my chest. Suddenly, a mighty Whoosh! shattered the tense silence. Wound like a coil ready to spring, I launched a foot into the air while pivoting towards the sound, assuming I was about to get steamrolled. Instead, I saw a pheasant-sized bird fighting for altitude. At our intrusion, a korhaan erupted from its roost like a cannonball, scaring the living daylights out of me…and maybe the others. Still, we remained fixed in our positions, hoping the bird’s abrupt flight hadn’t alerted the buffalo. But it was a pipe dream.
Unbeknownst to me, just before the disturbance, Elias and Emil could hear the relaxed breathing of the bulls, indicating they were bedded down nearby. Seconds after the ruckus, there was nothing but silence. Two creatures -- weighing close to ¾ of a ton each -- completely disappeared in the thick brush without making a sound. Gone like ghosts in the wind. Minutes later, their siesta spot was found only 12 yards from where Elias stood. Rather than continuing the pursuit, possibly compelling them to change their routine, Emil felt it better to let them alone for
the time being.
Late that afternoon, we perched atop the rock formations that towered above the baboon waterhole, lying in wait, hoping the phantom and his buddy might come to drink at the waterhole before dusk. When that failed, we returned the following morning to find that two bulls had slept within feet of the waterhole; but the baboons messed with the game camera, causing it to malfunction. With no photos, there was no way of knowing if the bulls included the bull we were searching for. Emil didn’t want to spend hours tracking the wrong ones. That afternoon, we again waited on the rocks overlooking the leaking pipe, hopeful the bull would come in during daylight.
The following day, we were back in business. The camera captured photos of the two bulls and another who had joined them. On this day, they took a less rocky route to reach the flatter terrain above. We moved quickly for the first few miles but returned to a snail’s pace as we closed in, frequently holding stock still in the most uncomfortable positions. After several hours, we caught up to where they were again bedded down. Kirstin, Mayba, and I hunkered down while we anxiously watched Emil, Elias, and Rick belly-crawled to a position about 20 yards from the bulls. Then we watched as they inched this way and that, trying to get a better view and a clear shot. Time ticked by, and minutes turned into an hour. Watching the painstakingly slow assault, without knowing precisely what was happening or where the buffalo were, was terrifying and agonizing— physically and emotionally. It is incredible how a position that initially feels comfortable turns torturous as the
One of the bulls passed on
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minutes grow.
Suddenly, I felt a slight breeze tickle the back of my neck. Instantly, it was game over; the buffalo trio exploded from their beds, disappearing into the bushveld.
Before the wind swirled, Rick and Emil had all three buffalo in their sights, only 20 yards in front of them. Well, I should clarify that: they had parts of all three buffalo in their views. Not only were all three sets of horns hidden by the brush, but not one bull presented a clean kill shot. With their limited visibility, Rick couldn’t risk killing the wrong buffalo or, worse, injuring one. The men had been waiting for the buffalo to wake and leisurely return to feeding, hoping the opportunity that Rick needed would present itself. The wind jinxed that plan. Instead of pushing them, Emil thought it again best to let them calm down and dismiss the threat. Hours later, we picked up where we had left off. Elias quickly found where the bulls had bedded down again after our scent had spooked them. Two hours later, we caught up to the bulls while they were feeding. This was what the men wanted. Still, time was again running out. Dusk was setting in, and from 25 yards away, only parts of each bull could be seen, offering no clear shots. It was decision time. Move to get in a better position, possibly alerting the bulls, or wait, hoping the bulls would offer a shot before it was too dark. Being in the pitch dark with dangerous, often fickle, and cantankerous wildlife was not high on my priority list. Therefore, I could have done a jig when Emil decided they had to risk it and move forward instead of waiting for the dead of night. While I
already had complete trust in Emil’s competence and expertise, having his wife hunkered down within feet of me was a bonus. Her safety, as well as ours, was a primary concern. Of course, this concept only works if the PH adores his wife -- which Emil most certainly did.
Sure enough, the moment the men budged, the buffalo bolted. The hunt was again over. The bulls were smart. After being jumped three times in as many days, they were on to us. They switched up their routine the next few days, not returning to the baboon waterhole.
Finally, on day nine, the two primary bulls returned to the waterhole. On this occasion, the bulls took an even steeper and rockier route to the flatter grounds. Even with the animals traveling through rocky, narrow passages and over 100-foot sections of flat rock, Elias never lost their trail. Two hours later, we reached where they had bedded down. Hopes were high. They were up feeding, offering the best chance for a shot. But just as we were closing in, the wind switched direction. Again, like ghosts in the wind, they were gone, barely making a sound.
Rick’s time was running out. It was the ninth day of Rick’s 10-day buffalo hunt. After letting the bulls calm down, we continued the nerve-wracking high-stakes game of Follow-the-Leader. Meanwhile, a third buffalo joined them for several miles, weaving in and out of the primary two.
Lo and behold, when the guys were closing in again, the wind swirled again, announcing our presence like a neon sign. The bulls again vanished into thin air without barely making a
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sound. The way wild creatures -- weighing over 1500 pounds -- can flee through thick brushy terrain so noiselessly is simply mind-boggling. Anytime any one of us brushed up against a twig or stepped on a dry leaf, it sounded like a bull horn going off, often earning daggers from the eyes of the others.
By the time we jumped the buffalo the second time that day, I was physically and emotionally spent. Pursuing an animal nicknamed “the widow maker” for another six hours, on top of all the previous stalks, had blown the wind out of my sails. We were also out of water and food. Fortunately, the buffalo had crossed a road where their trail could easily be picked up later. Not wanting the hunt to turn into a snicker’s commercial (I tend to get hangry) and to let the buffalo settle down, it was decided we’d return to camp for lunch.
With all the focus on the phantom bull, one might think Rick had no other opportunities. Yet, he’d had plenty. He passed on five nicesized buffalo, offering broad-side views at various waterholes.
In addition, we spent three hours stalking another lone bull before it sensed something was up, doubled back, and hid behind a clump of trees to investigate –disappearing in a burst once it spotted us at 20 yards. We pursued another three bulls for over an hour, getting within 25 yards. One of the old dagga boys and Rick locked eyes with each other for five minutes before it bolted, taking the other two with it. Some of these Cape buffalos were old warriors with scars to prove it, sporting broken or smallish horns (comparatively speaking). A few were harvestable but didn’t have the deep curls that Rick had his heart set on. Several were spectacular but still in their prime,
needing a few more years to spread their incredible genes. The problem with the Waterberg Plateau -- if you want to call it a problem -- is that so many of the bulls that would be considered magnificent in many parts of Africa are regarded as just mediocre. Therefore, hunters are typically looking for premium bulls. Once Rick saw the phantom bull, it was the gauge for everything else. Therefore, after lunch, the hunting party headed back to pick up where we left off -- minus me. For the first time since our safari began, I stayed behind. It was a decision I will always regret.
When the men picked up the trail, the three buffalo were together again, with strides suggesting that they were moving fast, potentially heading for the water. At about the four-mile mark, one buffalo split off. Assuming that the phantom buffalo had stayed with his buddy, they followed the set of double tracks.
Just as the two buffalo reached the waterhole, the men spotted them at 70 yards. Unfortunately, the bovines also caught sight of them. The bull with the more sizeable horns turned and charged directly at the men, stopping momentarily
Another one of the bulls passed on
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Rick and Emil with his bull at 40 yards. Something felt wrong, but the bull charged again before having a chance to deliberate. Urgently, Rick asked, “Is he the one?”
Emil responded with a hasty proclamation. “It’s big enough. Take it!”
Rick pulled the trigger, hitting the pissed bovine in a frontal shot to the heart at 30 yards. The bull spun and ran another 30 yards before dropping to the ground. The hunt for the phantom bull was over. Or so they thought.
At 41”, the horns looked slightly different and smaller than expected. Upon further study, the downed buffalo was missing a distinctive white spot on its side. Rick’s bull was not the phantom bull. The clever animal had
done a bait and switch. Instead of staying with his buddy as it did on so many occasions, it had buggered off on its own after the third bull had joined up with them.
The harvest of this bull filled me with so many emotions. I was devastated that I hadn’t cowgirled up and hung in there for that last hunt. While I have no desire to pull the trigger, I relish being a part of my husband’s hunting experiences. The pursuit is full of challenges, intrigue, excitement, fear, and disappointment. Then there is the gamut of emotions that come with every successful harvest. Joy. Thankfulness. Wonder. Relief, Remorse. Regret. Sorrow. Loss. Even disappointment that the hunt was over. That I wasn’t there to experience the culmination of this extraordinary hunt with Rick – a quest that included 24 hours of stalking on six different occasions -- was heartbreaking. Even so, I’d be lying if I said that some of me wasn’t thrilled that the phantom bull was alive and well when we left the Waterberg Plateau. Like hunters, I love wildlife and recognize the need for sacrifice. Sustainable utilization is critical for the well-being of humans and wildlife alike. Still, it is impossible not to get emotionally attached to some animals. Earning my respect and admiration after outwitting us time and time again, the bull had earned a special place in my
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Loew with the phantom bull heart. Rick may not have harvested the bull he worked so hard for, but the old boy gave us unforgettable experiences and an abundance of memories. There is nothing like sneaking through the African bush in the wake of dangerous game, watching trackers and professional hunters meticulously do their thing. Every sense is on high alert as equal parts fear and wonder course through your body. I, for one, am glad that the phantom bull offered many opportunities to experience that part of the hunt. After we left Namibia, the old bull continued to toy with Emil. Two weeks later, he went to check the camera – with no hunters in tow – and sure enough, the phantom was there. But instead of pulling a vanishing act, the bull stood proud as a peacock, wide out in the open, in broad daylight. To rub it in, the clever bovine even posed nicely for Emil to take his
picture, which Emil sent to us. Seeing the bull essentially thumbing his nose at us brought me so much joy.
I want to say that he is still on Waterberg Plateau, outmaneuvering humans but, finally, he made a fatal mistake. Two months later, Loew, the other PH from Jamy Traut safaris, pursued the bull with one of his clients. The bovine tried to pull the same bait-and-switch tactic, but Loew, knowing the bull’s previous behavior, didn’t buy it. He followed the lone trail and his client sealed the deal. When Rick learned that the bull’s horns measured 47”, it twisted the knife in his heart a little bit deeper. I was just sad. Plain and simple. Still, I am honored to have been a part of this magnificent animal’s journey. While his curled weapons do not hold a place of honor in our home, the phantom will always have a special place in our memories. I also know that he did not die in vain. His sacrifice means that many more shall live.
Sue Tidwell is a non-hunter who supports sustainable use hunting. She is the author of the book 'Cries of the Savanna' which won 5 awards in 2022. You can find Sue on Instagram @ suetidwell.writer You can buy the book on Amazon or click on the link below to buy a signed copy of the book: www.suetidwell.com
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