by Bob Robb
The first time the lion charged the Land Cruiser, I just about crapped myself. The second time, he jumped into the open bed, snarling and snapping, pissing on the hood and biting a hole in the corner of the cab, where myself, the Dude, and two diminutive bushman trackers, were riding. The PH, who was driving, slammed on the brakes, throwing the Dude off the seat onto his back in the truck bed, and me out the back and onto the ground. The bushmen were wisely tucked up under the seat. The cat, having made his displeasure known, jumped out right over the top of me and disappeared into the bush.
Without embarrassment I’ll admit I had a wet spot in my brand new safari pants. This hunt was about to get interesting.
Back in the 1980’s I was an eager, young, and quite naive 30-something brand new associate editor for what was, at that time, the leading hunting magazine in the country. I was invited to take my first African hunt along with three other guys, one of which was the son of a prominent booking agent who arranged the trip. It was to be a plains game hunt in the Okavango Delta region of Botswana, with a quick side trip north to the Kalahari desert where the Dude hoped to shoot a big-maned lion. I figured he had it dialed in, and all I had to do was trust him to make sure all was on the up-and-up. Big mistake.
Long story short, we made it to the delta camp and shot ‘em up, killing Cape buffalo, kudu, impala, warthogs, red hartebeest, even a sitatunga. Camp was deluxe, and all was well. Then we hopped on the charter to the Kalahari.
We were met by a local, who had a pair of bushman trackers—the most amazing hunters I have ever seen anywhere on earth, these guys could track a titmouse over bare rock at a trot—who said they knew where lions were feeding on a zebra kill. So off we went at dawn, traveling the only road in the region, parked, and hiked to the kill site. Along were the two bushmen, myself, the Dude, and the PH. The terrain was flat as the proverbial pancake, the bush so thick you could not see 20 yards ahead. When we snuck into the kill site, we discovered an entire pride of lions on the zebra. The lions started snarling and snapping, then disappeared into the bush, but not gone. We backed out of there, rifles at the ready, hackles raised and heart rates off the charts, until we got to the Land Cruiser. I’m thinking, “OK, regroup, take up the track of the big male cat that was there.” What I didn’t know was that we were about to violate both the game laws and every tenet of fair chase known to man.
The Land Cruiser had an open back, with a chest-high rail around the bed and a bench seat up against the cab. We loaded up and slowly drove to the kill site, stopped, the PH and bushmen got out, had a little conversation in that strange click language they use, then we loaded up again and were off. The lead bushman had a long stick in hand, using it to point down over the windshield and direct the PH where to drive through thick thick-as-dog’s-hair bush. He was tracking the big male cat from the bed of the truck.
On we went, the temperature and humidity rising with the sun. After about an hour, the PH stopped and had to remove large bunches of grass from the front of the radiator to keep it from overheating, then had another chat with the bushmen. Apparently things were not progressing fast enough, because now, one of the bushmen was jogging in front of the vehicle, tracking as he ran, us following. I’ve never seen anything like it, before or since. Mind you, the PH has not said a word to the Dude or myself about what was going on. I still figured we were trying to get to a place where we’d disembark and take up the track on foot. Who wouldn’t?
Another hour passed, and then another. We’re baking in the back and being bounced to high heaven. Then, the jogging bushman stopped, turned, and jumped into the back of the truck with us. That should have been my first clue. Dude was seated on the left side of the truck, I was standing behind the seat on the right, when it happened. Without warning the big cat charged the truck. I will never forget it as long as I live. As he shot out of the bush some 50 yards ahead his yellow devil eyes locked with mine, and he raced past my side of the truck quick as liquid mercury, maybe five feet away, then was gone.
The PH slammed the brakes, got out, and berated me: “Why the hell didn’t you shoot him, mate?!?!?”
“Because, sir (I’m thinking asshole), I don’t have the lion tag, it’s the Dude’s cat, and I’m sure he wants to shoot it himself.”
“Shit, now the thing will try and get in the truck,” he said, spinning on his heels, getting back in the cab, throwing it in gear, and off we went, the bushman again jogging in front.
My mind spun. What have I gotten myself into? This is a glorified road hunt that just accomplished its goal—run the cat until he’s so tired and pissed off he’ll charge, and you shoot from the relatively safe elevated truck bed. I got into combat mode. “Dude,” I said, “you sit on the seat so you can get to either side of the truck to shoot quickly, OK?” He’s left-handed, which became a problem a few moments later. I took the sling off my .375 and chambered a round, and stood behind the seat, ostensibly out of the way.
We traveled on another hour or so before we approached a little brush-covered hill. The jogger was once again in the back with us, and as we got up next to the hill, Hell broke loose. The lion leapt off the side of the hill, body slamming the cab, pissing on the windshield, biting the corner of the cab, PH jamming on the brakes, throwing Dude off the seat onto his back, me over the tailgate and out of the truck, lion rolling into the back of the truck bed, then out over the tailgate, over the top of me, and was gone. Total elapsed time? Maybe 20 seconds. Seemed like eternity.
Lord have mercy. PH got out, surveyed the scene. “Anybody hurt,” he asked, not really caring. The two trackers, grinning, peeked out from under the bench seat, where they wisely had crawled before the action started. Obviously this was not their first rodeo. The Dude was whining. “I hurt my back,” he sniveled. I thought, bro, this was your idea, and your hunt. Suck it the hell up and let’s get it over with. So we dusted ourselves off and continued on.
This time it didn’t take 20 minutes. “Boss!!” one of the trackers squealed, simultaneously pointing left and banging the top of the cab so the PH will stop. The big cat was 75 yards out, paralleling the truck. The Dude took aim and fired, hitting the lion on the top of the front shoulder, too high. The cat went down, was back up in a flash, and here he came in a rage. The Dude was shooting his daddy’s .375, which had a right-handed bolt. He reached over and promptly short-stroked it, jamming the empty in the chamber. I leaned over and fired, knocking the cat down at 40 yards. He got back up and came again, but I worked the bolt, and I shot him again, this time at 20 yards. Down he went. The PH now stood up on the right (driver’s) side of the cab, and shot the cat once with his .458. It was done.
The next few minutes were kind of a blur to me. I remember the PH and Dude back-slapping and high-fiving, while I walked away to have a little Bob time. My hands shook, both with fear and anger. I thought, the Dude will probably life-size this cat—and it’s magnificent, almost 10 feet nose-to-tail, with a perfect mane—but how can he look at it with anything approaching pride?
So we took some pictures, loaded him up, and drove the three hours back to the little village where it all started. The “jungle telegraph” somehow let the villagers know we’d shot a big lion, and they were waiting. We stopped the truck in the village square, where there were icy cans of Castle Lager waiting. As the PH and Dude were retelling the tale to some of the white camp staff, I looked up the street. There, our two trackers were telling their own version of what happened to their families and friends. They’d chatter and click their tongues and wave their arms and gesture with their hands, readily conveying their excitement, then they’d pause a second, look over at us, and start laughing uproariously. Talk and wave some more, look, laugh louder. And I thought, God help me, they are making fun of us, the clueless rich dudes from another planet who just about got themselves mauled.
I have rarely been more ashamed.
So as we were heading back to the Okavango to finish the hunt out, I asked the Dude, “Hey, you think I might get one claw from that cat as a souvenir?” “No problem,” he said. But of course I never did. I also never did business with him again.
And I am still ashamed.
