By Cameron Hopkins
Pressing pause in the middle of a Namibian safari takes a pretty damn compelling reason, like Scarlett Johansson chartering in just to shag you in a tent. Not gonna happen. What might happen—what did happen— is an invasion of barbarian cheetahs.
“Morning Cameron, ‘fraid we have a problem,” came the not-so-sunny greeting from my PH as coffee was being served. I looked at him with a mix of curiosity and concern. What could be wrong so early in the morning?
“Cheetah came in last night, mother and five cubs. Saw where they crawled under the fence. They’ve killed two springbok already and that’s just a start. Cheetah mums take each cub out in turn to teach them how to make a kill, so she’ll kill five springbok a day, and they’ll only eat one.”
“She won’t leave as long as there’s springbok and as you’ve seen, we have plenty-plenty. So… if it’s alright with you, I’d like to pause our safari while we sort out these cheetahs. You can do the shooting.”
Scarlett just offered to mix me an Old Fashioned beforehand. My answer was as fast as it was short: “Let’s go!”
Grabbing a piece of toast and my rifle instead of sitting down to breakfast, we made a bee-line for the largest open area on the ranch, a wide plain teeming with springbok, arriving just at sunrise. The grassy pasturage was bordered by bush, so we hung back in the shadows of the bushline and glassed the field. We spotted a cub, nearly a yearling, sitting on its haunches, eyeing the springbok. Mum must be nearby but we didn’t see her.
My PH threw up the sticks and my Ed Brown Custom .338 Win. Mag. slid in the V-notch as I settled behind the optic. Piece of cake, range about 150, target immobile.
At the shot, the cheetah slammed down like a Friday night wrestler—a 225 gr. Barnes TSX at 2,650 fps is a bit of overkill on an 80 pound half-dog half-cat.
“Reload! Another one!” he exclaimed.
Streaking like, well, the world’s fastest land mammal, a second cheetah lit the afterburner towards the bushline. He’d been lying close by. My shot kicked up dirt about six feet behind him. I was leading him a good 15 feet, but not enough. I worked the bolt with the rifle at my shoulder, extended my lead ridiculously and fired again. He cartwheeled head over tail just as he hit the bushline.
“Got him! Great shot!” the PH jabbered excitedly. “Two! You got two!”
We took photos and bathed in our shared exhilaration. The rest of the day was both a hunting and adrenal letdown. The remaining spotted invaders eluded us. The following evening on the way back to camp, we drove past a water hole close to where we’d shot the pair previously. “Be ready,” he admonished out the window. I was riding in the back of the Land Cruiser, rifle out, loaded and rested on the roof rack atop my daypack.
My safety flicked off the moment a blur of dappled tawny raced away, a much closer shot this time and I knew the lead, pivoting the rifle on the pack, a tongue of orange flame blinding in dusk’s last light. The cheetah over-ended in a swirl of dust. More photos, with a flash.
The next morning my PH appeared just as the coffee was coming. “Good news!” he beamed. “The boys radioed in. They saw where mum and her last two cubs crawled under the fence. They’re gone, we can go back to hunting.”
Three springbok-raiding cheetahs on a plains game safari ain’t bad, a hearty “thank you” instead of trophy fees. The skins stayed there, no exporting to the U.S., but from now until forever I’ll savor the memory of ass-over-tea-kettling the world’s speediest four-footed animal.
