By Caleb McClain
“The bloody lechwe winded us,” whispered my PH, a lanky 20-something, as we watched a herd of tawny antelope dart across the marsh.
It was inevitable. The swirling winds that week made stalking conditions far from ideal, and the tall, dense reeds covering the area meant we couldn’t take a shot beyond 30 yards.
We backed out of the marsh and trekked toward the Hilux parked on the nearby plains to see what else might be on the menu.
“We haven’t shot a blesbok yet. What about one of them?” I asked, eyeing a herd of eight gangly creatures in the distance as we walked back.
My PH raised his binoculars. “Bontebok, not blesbok. There are no blesbok here—they crossbreed. Do you want one?”
“I’ve never thought about shooting one, but I’m game for anything.”
The Trophy of the Hunt
That was the truth. I was up for anything at that point. The only animal I truly cared about was a massive gemsbok, and we already had one in the salt. Anything else was icing on the cake. I hadn’t considered hunting a bontebok because I didn’t know much about them aside from their name. What I was about to learn, though, would deepen my respect for hunting as a conservation tool.
The stalk between bushes was easy, and my shot broke true. A thin-horned antelope bucked, ran 15 yards, then collapsed into the dust of the savannah.
“That might be the prettiest animal I’ve ever seen,” I said in astonishment. Its coat shimmered with iridescence. It was gray with a hint of purple at certain angles, nearly jet black at others. “I might have to shoulder mount this one.”
I glanced at my wife, whose glare said plainly, “And where exactly do you plan to hang that one?”
“I hate to tell you, but I don’t know if you can get it into America,” a more senior PH said as he walked up. “It’s a CITES-protected species. We can try, but one of our clients has been waiting 18 months for their import permit. But you need to read about them at the lodge—it’s quite the conservation success. A hundred years ago, there were only 17 left in the world.”
Disappointed but curious, I made a mental note to dig deeper into the species’ history, which turned out to be one of the most remarkable conservation sagas I’d ever come across.
An African Conservation Story
In the 18th and 19th centuries, bontebok were common across the plains of southern Africa. As settlement expanded, farmers increasingly shot “pest” animals that competed with their herds for grazing. By the early 1900s, only a few hundred remained, and they were down to just 17 in 1931. Farmers and government officials alike realized extinction was inevitable without intervention. The remaining individuals were captured and relocated to a preserve that eventually became Bontebok National Park, a site dedicated solely to saving the species.
The park was initially a success, but disease and limited habitat caused another crash. Fewer than 100 animals survived until they were moved again in 1961 to a new Bontebok National Park. This time, the population flourished, exploding to over 700 in just 17 years. With a carrying capacity of only 200–250 animals, the park began sending excess bontebok to game breeders.
“If it pays, it stays.” That’s the hard truth of conservation. With hunters eager to add a new species to their safaris, bontebok were introduced to game farms across South Africa. Strict regulations prevented crossbreeding, ensuring genetic purity, while financial incentives encouraged landowners to raise them. Today, 85% of the population lives on private land, and hunting plays a major role in their continued expansion. SCI estimates there are now more than 9,000 bontebok, though many experts agree that only a portion remain genetically pure.
“You want one?” my PH asked, handing me a glass bottle of Black Label beer.
I obliged, and we drank one as we loaded the bontebok into the back of the truck before pursuing a distant herd of black wildebeest.
In the end, instead of a shoulder mount, I brought home photographs, the memories of a victory beer, and the knowledge that I had participated in the remarkable comeback of a species I hadn’t even considered hunting before that day. The experience, not a mount, was the real trophy all along.
