By Patrick Hemingway Adams
An old editor of mine used to say that only the worst pieces of hunting writing begin at Dallas Safari Club. You’ll meet an outfitter, you will go on a hunt, and then almost inevitably you’ll pen the most uninteresting account of that experience that’s ever been written.There’s nothing wrong with DSC, or booking cool hunts; just make sure you start the story in a more interesting place. Evidently, editors have enough to drink about as it is.
With that in mind, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but- “Dear Penthouse, it actually happened to me!”
Technically, my story begins not at the outfitter booth; but shortly after being escorted off the convention floor by Dallas police officers and rerouted to the nearby lobby bar. I find myself standing at the gas firepit with an armful of negronis prepared inexplicably in non-traditional martini glasses and someone else’s cowboy hat perched on top of my head at a devil-may-care angle that has long since been scrubbed from the textbooks in Texas. The crowd is mostly the friends and party goers that have also been evicted from our safari tent booth at the show. Apparently, this bar has a much more laid back philosophy on public consumption.
In the swirling cowboy-booted masses, I find Rad Robertson, South African professional hunter and water polo star. I slurringly shout above the din and into his ear about my intent to attend a proposed cape buffalo hunt in a few weeks. He is holding his own court with a cigarette in one hand, a vape in the other, and an omnipresent array of whiskey sodas within arm’s reach.
“That’s coming up,” he says, “like now-now, eh?”
“Count me in!” I holler back, spilling only a lot of my negronis.
“OK, Hemingway, let’s go clap a buffalo.”
We joyfully toast to the hunt, to old friendships, and to being propositioned for threesomes by “outdoorsy” Dallas housewives.
—–
Some weeks later, I am in the Balule Nature Reserve, Limpopo region, South Africa; up near the border with Mozambique. I’d say it is “hot as balls,” but to a Montana boy in the Southern Hemisphere- it feels even hotter than that. The violent rays of the sun have kept our hunting limited to short excursions in the morning and late afternoon. There’s no shortage of buffalo here, but we have specific parameters for size and age due to the restrictions of our tags. The game here is finding the right old bull in the right place, at the right time, with the right wind and more than a little bit of luck. Easy squeezy.
We’d observed a herd of 100 or so cape buffalo as they came in to a watering hole. Identifying likely targets up close was relatively simple, as hunting pressure is limited in the area and our observation position was well hidden. Getting set up on a bull was another story. Shooting into herds may work just fine for Yellowstone Park boundary elk hunters, but our operation is a professional one. Rad had promised us that we would do our hunt properly, and so with dreams of a hair-raising close range stalk up to an ancient and angry bull, we retreat into the safety of the shade back at camp.
We would spend the next few days driving the red dirt roads in search of fresh spoor. We have with the party an Afrikaans handler, Jacques, whose job it is to keep an eye on us. He also acts as game ranger, anti-poaching officer, and back-up gun. He is short statured, like me, but with bright eyes in a darkly tanned face, unlike me. He carries an old CZ .416 bolt action rifle with most of the bluing worn off from frequent use. Our own guns would begin to show the same pattern of wear from sweaty hands holding the barrels. Slings only get in the way out here.
I asked him if he spells his name the French way, to which he replied-
“Ach, man, the only French thing about me is my name.”
“Fair enough, Jacques.” I say, relieved.
Jacques usually sits on the hood of the Land Cruiser, scanning for workable tracks, as we slowly drive the length and breadth of the reserve area. Blalule is situated right next to Kruger National Park, sharing a border but not a fence. The animals in this area move freely, without concern for the imaginary boundaries created by man of any color.
Our hunt is frequently interrupted by the sudden appearance of giraffe in the road, or elephant herds trampling around, or dozens of bored impala blocking our route. We can’t help but stop to watch the lions dozing in the heat, looking much like giant house cats and not at all like the killers we know them to be.
We encounter a family of white rhino, all with their horns removed. The effect of seeing this imposition of mankind on such a wild animal is jarring to the senses. Everything about this place feels old, like it has looked this way for hundreds of years-except for the roads and the artificially dehorned rhinoceros. While we discuss the group’s mutual opinion of the Chinese and their negative influence on wild game in Africa, Jacques climbs onto the top of the Toyota and begins coughing dryly into his hands in the form of a game call.
One of the Rhinos responds in the same raspy sound. I don’t claim to understand rhinoceros, but I know an intimate whisper when I hear one. We wonder how long old Jacques has been out here in the bush.
On and on we drive, sometimes getting out to follow along tracks that eventually peter out or are often just obliterated by overlapping elephant sign. Many of the female buffalo in the herd are still in season, and most of the local bulls have stayed close while the ladies are feeling agreeable. Identifying individual animals has become impossible amongst the mish-mashed pattern of hoof prints. The sheer numbers of all of these giant game species out here would blow your mind. The bushes and grass have grown up high from recent rains, and even the biggest elephants seem to just vanish into the seemingly impenetrable bush.
Evenings arrive suddenly here, and a long day without a kill is still a pleasant one. When the clock strikes whatever the time legal shooting light ends, we race towards nearby scenic sundowner spots. We laugh and harangue each other to release the accumulated nervous tension while Rad takes out his famous padded portable bar case to mix every one their preferred cocktail. There is only one rule at “sundowners,” and it is that you had better not refuse his cold drink served in a 1 liter yeti mug. Nor the second one.
Lions call out in the dark, and once a hyena bolted straight through our group as we stood drinking in the two-track road. The stars are like nowhere else. Even just the perceived enormousness of the bush at night makes you feel smaller than my belt full of .500NE cartridges should have allowed. There are many lessons to be learned out here; one of the more tangible is the cost associated with sending a tracker a half mile on foot through the lions and bush to retrieve tonic water. One pack of cigarettes, well spent.
The days continued in a way that we wished would never end, but the inevitability of fate requires that we have the encounter that would signify the end of our hunt. Every cold beer, every bad joke, every new discovery was one step closer to touching off a few barrels at a worthy old cape buff. It was only a matter of time and tonic until it happened.
On that morning, we are quietly winding through dense raisin-bush and thorns. Visibility is not much more than arm’s length. Our group is following the tracks of a pair of old bulls which have split off from the herd. We are in single file, bumping into each other and sweating nervously.
I am advised to listen for the call of an Ox-pecker bird that will betray the hiding spot of a buffalo in this thick stuff; also to keep my bloody gun up and ready.
Jacques in the front, whispers back to Rad; Rad whispers to me and gestures at the pugmarks in the sand.
“Fucking lions hunting the bulls. ”
Dutifully, we repeat the phrase down the line in a absurd khaki-clad version of telephone-
“Fucking lions.”
The tracks end inconclusively on hard ground, but it seems likely that they’re headed for a nearby watering spot. We find only one set of serviceable tracks leading in that direction.
“Lions may have clapped the other one.” Shrugs Rad. So it goes.
We backtrack carefully and pile into the land cruiser to make up time. We know where he’s going-or at least have a pretty good guess. A short drive down winding red dirt roads and we arrive at a little watering hole. Jacques dismounts to recce the spot, returning quickly with a broad grin-
“Ja, he’s there!”
With steady hands and a racing heart, I check my rifle and run through my mental checklist:
Left barrel goes first with the rear trigger, that’s the one with the 570 grain soft bullet. Then the front trigger, right barrel with the 570 grain solid bullet. Aim, boom, boom, reload, pray. Let’s party.
We stack up wordlessly, as we are now well practiced, and move towards the sunken pool. There, right near the edge, our old buff is laying in the water. Utterly relaxed, he’s dozing contently despite the recent and likely violent end of his companion.
Rad is in front, and I match his gait and step nearly on his heels with everyone else following closely. My non-traditional, but necessary electronic hearing protection is turned up to 11 so that I may hear whispered instructions from my PH. We creep up with only a single bush between ourselves and the buffalo.
At fifteen or so yards, Rad steps aside and I keep walking slowly, crouched as low as I can bend over in my culling belt full of cartridges. Every footstep sounds like fate donkey-kicking a door in my ear pro’s. I don’t make it far before Rad grabs my shirt collar to stop me and shoves me out to the side of the bush.
This movement is enough to alert the bull, and he stands up menacingly in irritation to face me. His black eyes shine out under a battered old boss and horns. In the slowness of the moment, I am close enough to see the water rippling around his legs.
No instructions necessary. I aim for the heart and squeeze the rear trigger.
