Wayne Muller, A Day in the Life of a ‘Great White Hunter’

A Day in The Life of A “Great White Hunter”

by Wayne Muller During the first half of the 20th century, the term "Great White Hunter" was given to men of Western and European descent making a living by pursuing Africa’s deadliest big game animals and by selling ivory, meat, and animal hides to trade merchants from around the world. The term was given to these men by the African natives who benefited from their work in terms of employment. Present-day "Great White” hunters are called Professional Hunters or simply “PH’s” and I am proud to have served this industry for the past ten years; during this time I was blessed with a lifetime of memories and experiences. One such memory started a few years ago. Before the crack of dawn, my team and I would have a meeting in our boardroom which mostly consisted of rustic Hemingway chairs set around the campfire, still smoldering from the festivities of the night before. Our chef, Innocent, would quickly bring the fire kettle filled with water and set it on the hardwood coals in front of us. There was a slight chill in the wind as the sun’s rays started piercing the darkness of the night sky; the cry of a jackal could be heard in the distance and the aroma of fresh coffee being brewed filled the air. So started a new day. The coolers got stocked, vehicles were cleaned, and breakfast was served. Innocent always did a fantastic job making the best meals. Who knew something as simple as breakfast could be turned into an absolute delicacy? Although our client was new to us, a stranger from another country, we sat at the table together as a family. A brotherhood was formed, time and time again, a camaraderie forged in the rural African bush, a new lifelong friendship was born. My trackers and game scouts came calling to me on the radio; the static sounded like someone trying to tune a television from the early 1950s. This could only mean that they were out of range. The previous evening, they started tracking a herd of buffalo through a thicket of Acacia brush. Because they were one of the most dangerous animals in Africa, I hastily gathered my equipment! My team, consisting of one other PH, a driver, and my tracker, ignited life into the trusted diesel engine of our Toyota Landcruiser. Together with my client, we made haste in the direction of the scouting party. In my mind, I expected the worst and only hoped for the best. Two hours went by driving as fast as we could on the interconnected farm roads. Suddenly the radio call became crystal clear, “Bwana, come in, Bwana? This is Robert, we have found a Dagga boy. We will meet you under the old Mopani tree.” My heart started racing. As it pumped the adrenaline through my veins, my concern turned to excitement. The Dagga Boy Robert referred to indicates an old buffalo bull, exiled from the herd by a younger bull in his prime. The word Dagga is a Zulu word for mud, thus Dagga Boys, as their name suggests, spend a great deal of time in mud holes. They cover themselves in mud for a few reasons, including covering their scent from potential predators, as an insect repellent, and simply as sunscreen. These bulls will either live completely solitary lives or they will form small bachelor groups of up to five animals. We arrived at the old Mopani tree Robert instructed us to meet him at. With the African sun beating down on us, I instructed my client to hydrate. It is a very odd occurrence for one grown man to remind another grown man to hydrate, but in Africa, people do not realize how fast they start dehydrating. Robert grabbed a shovel and cleared the top couple of inches of sand from under the Landcruiser. This exposes the cool sand beneath the sun-seared

top layer. We all shuffled in under the vehicle, laying shoulder to shoulder to escape the blistering heat. A few hours later, Robert awakened us from an uncomfortable nap. He reminded me that it was now time to work and that our vacation time was over. We crawled out from beneath the vehicle. Just the slightest difference in temperature made it bearable for us to continue our pursuit. I grabbed my .500 Nitro Express, a large-caliber rifle otherwise known as my insurance policy. Robert led us through the thick brush. Our clothes soaked in sweat, we pushed on. A musty smell started to fill the air; I knew we were getting close. The brush was so thick, it was hard to see more than twenty feet ahead of us.

Suddenly Robert stopped dead in his tracks, not making a single movement, and of course, we all followed suit. He crouched down low and shuffled over to me, “Bwana, the bull is not too far ahead of us. He has not moved from the area we found him in this morning. You must be careful! This bull is not your friend.” Inspiring words from my tracker, I took the lead from this point forward along with my client. We crawled through the bush, slowly breaching the bank surrounding the mud hole, providing us with some cover. Almost immediately I spotted the bull Robert told us about. Standing in the mud under the shade, he was completely unaware of our presence. Our conditions were perfect! The hunting Gods must have been on our side. As my client took aim through his rifle scope, I tried explaining to the best of my ability where to place the bullet: “He is slightly quartering towards us; do you see his shoulder? Place your bullet about 2 inches to the left, take a deep breath and slowly squeeze the trigger. Take your time, we are in no rush, whenever you are ready” Moments later, the shot was taken. The crack of the rifle echoed through the brush. “Good shot! Good shot!” As I reassured the client, however, I knew the bullet did not hit where I would have preferred it to. Buffalo are like battle tanks; when the bullet does not find its mark, and their adrenaline kicks in, they can absorb an exceptional amount of lead. Knowing that and watching the bull run off into the thicket, I could not help but wonder what lay ahead of us. They are most dangerous when wounded! We started making our way towards the tracks leading into the bush. Robert quickly made his way over to us and after looking at the tracks, turned to me without missing a beat and said, “Bwana, I told you, this one is not your friend” With a concerned look on his face, he started tracking the bull. At this point, the gloves were off, and both the client and I were locked and loaded. My job as a Professional Hunter is primarily to ensure the safety of my client. Robert did the quick work of tracking the animal and again came to a sudden stop. Luckily for us, the brush had opened, increasing our visibility to about 50 yards ahead of us. Robert pointed to a small thicket ahead of us and cautiously whispered, “Do you see that black spot through the leaves? That is the bull looking straight at us.”

His words barely escaped his lips as the buffalo came bursting through the brush, charging straight towards us. During the next few moments, it was as if everything happened in slow motion. I looked over at the client as he hesitated to lift his rifle to his shoulder. Robert stood directly in front of me. I grabbed him by the collar and moved him off to the side while simultaneously lifting my rifle into my shoulder. It did not take long for me to find my target. I considered the animal's movement, watching his head movement as he came barreling towards us like a freight train. The distance between us started closing rapidly. 40 yards, 30 yards, 20 yards, and as soon as the animal broke the 15 yard line, I felt a sense of calm, as if my mind kicked into autopilot from the continuous training we undergo for situations like this. I squeezed my trigger, the recoil bit into my shoulder and the buffalo crashed into the dirt within 10 yards of where we were standing. Small pieces of dirt sprayed on our faces and the dust settled on our shoes. I looked over at my client. Neither one of us had words at that moment, but I saw the gratitude in his eyes. After a few moments, we were back in reality. My client, having experienced such an amazing moment, was still lost for words. I turned towards him and jokingly whispered, “There is toilet paper in the truck if you need it.” After wrestling with the carcass of the behemoth-like animal, we made our way back to the lodge. Once we arrived, Innocent had once again prepared a delicious gourmet meal, and needless to say, it was well-received. Later that night we continued with our ritualistic festivities in celebration of the opportunity we had to harvest such a beautiful and powerful animal, and the fact that we had the opportunity to start one more morning in our informal board room. The meat we harvested that day, other than what was kept for the lodge, was donated to the local community. In all the time I have spent in the African bush, the most important thing I have learned is that Africa has many adventures that wait for those willing to discover them. Although there are hidden dangers, all you need is your trusted “Great White” hunter!