The Old Warrior of the Luangwa Valley
We were tracking a small bachelor group of about five animals. I had a desire to take an old Dugga Boy with a large boss and worn tips, a “proper bull” as they say. We lost the track for a little while in the tall grass, and as we were meandering around tying to get back on the spore, we aroused a Caracal from its sleep and it jumped up and bolted causing my heart to skip a beat. Finally, as Noah and Nelson, my African trackers, fanned out ahead we were able to pick up the spore again in a dry river bed. Darren, my PH, kicked the sand with the toe of his boot in the dry river bed and sighed as he tapped out a smoke from the pack and watched as the wind swirled. This time of day, mid-morning, as the heat starts to rise the thermals create an unstable wind.
We were hunting in the Luangwa Valley of Zambia, a place full of game. I swung the Merkel .470 NE off my shoulder. I had been carrying the big double, right hand around the end of the barrels with the weight of the gun laid across my shoulders. I did not take a sling as I figured it was just something to get in the way. We took a break for a few minutes as Darren took the last drag from his smoke and pushed up the other side of the river bank.
The buffalo did not seem to be pushing ahead too fast; they were feeding out from the water hole they had visited in the early morning hours and were slowly moving out into the thicker bush where they would lay up during the heat of the day. We did not have a hard time picking up the spore on the other side of the river bed and we continued the pursuit. We had followed several groups like this over the last several days, trying to get close and then evaluating the trophy quality. I had observed several nice bulls; however, I had a certain picture in my mind of what I wanted, an old warrior of a bull, and I had not found him yet.
As we made our way quietly through the bush with Nelson and Noah out front trying to keep bearings on direction of the meandering heard all the sudden Noah dropped to his knee with his hand stretched out and palm down. He had spotted something of interest ahead.
Everyone crouched down, and Darren and I slowly made our way single file over to where Noah was perched to try to make out what he was looking at. We each peered through our glasses into the bush ahead and could make out the greyish brown mass of several buffalo standing in a thick patch of trees. My friend Wighardt Van Der Gyrp from South Africa was accompanying me on this journey. We were having a difficult time trying to sort out the animals against the grey dark thicket. We found a tree to hide behind from a decent vantage point and started evaluating the animals. Wig and Darren found one bull in the group that they felt would meet my criteria. I peered through my Swarovski 8 X 10 binos trying to sort out the mess. Finally, they were able to guide my eyes to see the buffalo of interest. I glassed him over and decided this was a bull that I would like to take. The range was a little more than I had hoped for at 80 yards. Most of my practice with this rifle at home had been from 50 yards. I was shooting a Merkel .470 NE double with a red dot Trijicon RMR site. What did give me some confidence is that the day before I did make a shot on a big bull Hippo between the eyes at 80 yards and put him down instantly. Wig tried to assure me that I could make a 100-yard shot with that rifle, however that was beyond my level of comfort.
Darren set up the shooting sticks and I looked though my glasses again to get my bearings and then tried to pick the proper spot to aim. This proved difficult to me. I put the glasses down and peered through my site and tried to put the red dot on the kill zone; however, I was having a difficult time finding where on the grey mass to place the shot. The problem was that the outline of the animal was exceedingly hard for me to make out without the aid of the glass. By this time the animals seemed to be getting a little nervous. I believe by now there were aware that we were there and started to mull around more, however they felt secure enough in their hiding place not to bolt out yet. Unfortunately, that situation could change quickly. I could tell my PH was getting a little impatient but I did not want to rush the shot and get a bad shot placement. We finally found a fork in a small bush that gave me a mark I could see. We decided based upon where the animal was standing that if I aimed in that fork I would either hit heart or the bottom of the lungs. I placed the dot of the sight in this area and squeezed off the trigger. When I shot, the recoil from the big double caused the barrels to rise off the sticks and by the time I could level the gun again there was no chance for a follow up shot. The animals bolted out of the bush and down a hill and there was no way for me to make out which one to aim at for a second shot. Nyambe, an apprentice PH, had been watching the scene though his glasses. He assured me it was a good shot by the way the animal reacted, kind of haunching over first then running off. We decided to give it a few minutes and then walk over and evaluate the scene.
After Darren finished his smoke we all made our way over to where my old Dugga Boy had been standing. We picked up a blood trail quickly and began tracking. After tracking for about 150 yards we saw where initially he was lagging the group then caught up and the blood trail was not as prevalent as we would have liked. We bumped them one time, the wind was not in our favor now and was blowing towards the group of bulls. We discussed the situation and decided that if I had administrated a lethal shot to the vitals that he would likely lay down in the heat of the day and not be able to get back up. Pushing them at this point did not seem to be the best course of action. We decided to make our way back to camp and have lunch and pick up the track later in the day.
As we started the long hike back to the vehicle I tried not to be to anxious as I replayed the events in my head. I started to doubt my decision to take the shot and worried that I had made a bad shot placement and would not be able to recover my bull. I tried to put those thoughts out of my head and remain positive; however, it is not an easy feeling leaving a wounded buffalo in the bush, not knowing how the situation would end.
It seemed like the walk and drive back to camp took forever this time and I could not settle into my mid-afternoon siesta once back at camp. I recorded my thoughts in my journal, had a cold beer, and watched the crocs laying in the sun on the other side of the river on a big sand bar. There were several Puku wandering the river bank and one cow hippo working her way up the far bank. I was tired because a big bull elephant had come into camp at about 2 a.m. and stood right outside my tent picking the seed pods out of the tree my tent was pitched under. It is very difficult to sleep when there is a 7-ton animal with long tusks standing a foot from where you are sleeping, it made me quite nervous; I was afraid to move a muscle or make a sound.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity it was time to load up the Toyota Landcruiser and head back out to the bush. We made our way from camp and though several small villages of thatched huts. The children would run to the road to meet us as and yell “where’s my bottle, where’s my bottle”. They had become accustomed to us throwing our plastic water bottles out to them and they thought of them as a great treasure. When one of the bottles hit the ground, it was as if a Rugby match would spontaneously erupt as they formed a scrum over the bottle and kicked and bit to retrieve the bottle and take off running.
As we were getting close to the area where I had hunted my Buffalo the Land Cruiser had a flat and we had to stop to change the tire on the sandy road. As we worked the high lift jack on the bumper and began loosening the lug nuts we heard the crack of a shot from a small caliber gun nearby. This was a surprise and quite out of the ordinary. I was the only hunter in camp and the only other firearms around would be some rustic relics the game scouts that worked for the Zambian government carried. Darren sent Noah out in the direction of the shot to investigate as we continued to work on the tire.
After completing the task at hand, we loaded back up in the Cruiser and headed for the place where we intended to pick the track back up. As we started down the road we noticed there seemed to be a commotion going on around a small group of thatched huts on the edge of a field. There was a pile of bicycles out front and a lot of people running around. Darren commented, “something is up, this is not normal.” About that time, we saw Noah running back towards the vehicle from across the field. We pulled up to where the huts were about the time Noah was reaching the scene and he informed us that the villagers had come across a wounded buffalo up above where we were a few hundred yards in a thicket of bush. We immediately dismounted and headed in that direction. We were met part way by a game scout that I had not seen before and he was carrying an AK -47. That is the shot we heard. He claimed the buffalo charged him and he shot at him. Darren lit into him for shooting at my buffalo; he wasn’t buying the story that the scout had been in mortal danger. I do not think if he was that the weapon he was carrying would have been of much use in a buffalo charge other than allowing him to dispatch himself to save the agony of a good goring.
As I approached the area out beyond the group of thatched huts I could see village people perched up in trees. As I crested a small hill and I saw my buffalo laying with his head up under some trees in the shade. I lowered my gun to port arms and approached with caution. At about 30 yards I pulled the big double up to my shoulder and made a free had shot on his shoulder as he was laying. The old bull struggled to get up and when he had his front two feet under him I let him have it in the same spot with the other barrel and he went back down. I reloaded quickly and continued the approach. At about 15 yards I could see he was still struggling to get up, so I let him have it again; this time I was able to put one between the front legs as he was laying on his side. This shot finished the job.
By now I turned around and found that I had accumulated a lot of spectators. They started coming out of the trees and from the bush once I had put the immediate danger to rest. Word travels quick by the “bush telegraph” and we had a crowd of 20 or so villagers, women, children and a few men. I inspected my bull, it did not appear that the scout’s AK-47 made any holes in my bull; however, it was apparent that the other bachelors he was with decided to rough him up before leaving him alone in the bush to die. He had quite a few horn holes in his underside where they worked him over good.
After the photo sessions the trackers began the butchering of the animal and loading onto the Land Cruiser. The crowd started getting restless as they wanted to get to the entrails from the gutting of the animal. My PH, the game scout, trackers, and Wig tried to keep order and have them line up so that Noah could cut up the pieces of protein now laying on the ground and give everyone a portion. This worked for a little while, but then chaos eventually ensued and everyone swarmed the remaining remnants of the gut pile grabbing and fighting over every piece. When the scene was finished there was little more than a greasy spot left on the ground where the gut pile had once been. We had the hind quarters and front part of the animal along with the head loaded on the Cruiser to take back to camp. If anyone has any doubt that every ounce of these animals doesn’t get used in the bush I will be happy to show the video I captured of the feeding frenzy following the dispatch of my bull.
The hunt was an enjoyable, tough, awesome experience. This was a truly wild area of Africa I was hunting, and I felt it was as an authentic safari as one can experience in this age. I feel very fortunate to have been able to hunt in a remote wild area such as this for dangerous game, on foot, with a traditional double rifle, and hope to experience it again someday.
