Doug Patteson
Generally speaking, you take what the bush provides. But most of us on safari have a list and in reality, it’s a balance between the two. If you take too much of what the bush offers, when you see what you really want, you may be over budget. In the vein of never go to the grocery store hungry, will power is important as you hunt in Africa.
Day 3 of our hunt dawned and I had 3 animals in the salt already. I really was only interested in a good warthog and a nice kudu, should I see one. So we focused on finding a kudu expecting the bush to offer a warthog in due course.
At first light we found ourselves up in the high hills of the property, good kudu country where we’d seen a lot of sign and small groups of kudu. We unloaded and were about to head to our ambush site overlooking a neighboring hilltop 200-300 meters away. I was at the back of the truck with my rifle slung, my wife having just climbed down, when I heard a twig snap in the bush behind me. I turned and looked and about 5 meters away stood a mature buff cow.
I whispered softly but urgently, “Louie, Buffalo!”
“Where?”
“There,” as I swung my arm to show him the 15-20 buffalo all now still staring/smelling us from the edge of the bush.
“Doug, get Susan in the cab.”
“Louie, you need me to hand you your rifle?” Louie was in the bed, his .375 in the cab.
“No, just get her in there and climb up here with me.”
That safely accomplished, Louie and I had a Mexican standoff with the herd of buffalo looking at us curiously. The light was growing and our hopes of beating the kudu were rapidly diminishing and the buffalo were not inclined to heed our vocal requests to go elsewhere.
Louie climbed down from the bed of the truck, picked up a couple of stones and climbed back up. Some well-aimed rocks to the rumps finally convinced them they needed to move on. Which they did, thundering down the hillside right through our prime kudu hunting area. Hunting out the hand we were dealt, we saw no shooters.
Sitting on a waterhole that evening, little was moving. This particular hole is near the edge of the property with 180 degrees of visibility that we didn’t have permission to hunt. About an hour before dusk, we saw a nice kudu bull present himself. Only two problems: he was still a year or two from being a shooter, and he was on the wrong side of the property line. Watching him, I marveled at his size and beauty. I had truly grown to love the grey ghost of Africa over these three weeks. Louie commented, “Wouldn’t it be just our luck if a big shooter bull came out of the bush on that side too?”
It wasn’t 10 minutes later when that scenario played out exactly. A huge (almost certainly mid-50’s) bull stepped out of the bush and began grazing on tree leaves above him. He was about 220 meters away and I had him in my scope the entire time, but again, he was on the wrong side of the property line. And while we mightily tried to will him to cross to our side, that just didn’t happen. We watched him for 10 to 15 minutes as the light faded; he was oblivious to our presence.
I dreamt of monster kudu as the days ticked by.
In the meantime, Louie sought, and finally received permission for us to hunt the neighboring property.
Up early, we headed over and met the tracker at the gate. He told us he knew about a big kudu and he would help us find it. We set off on foot.
This man was quiet, but moved rapidly through the brush. We clearly spooked game a couple of times and as the crashing of fleeing animals receded, he would listen each time and then look at us and say: “That was not the big one.” Ultimately, we climbed higher up in the hills and he began to move more slowly. But still no luck.
Moving through the bush, we saw a kudu cow cross a track and then moments later, we saw a nice bull follow her and then they both disappeared. We tried several times to cut their track to no avail. Debating which way to go, I looked down a long trail below us, maybe 7 meters wide but 400 meters long downhill and I watched the big bull step out and start walking away from us. I pointed him out to Louie and he and I were off to the races to get to a good shooting position. The hillside was almost terraced. Each time we set up the sticks he’d emerge but was always walking slowly away straight downhill from us. I could see how far back his horns came on his back, but still had no idea how big he was. The only shot would have been through his spine, between his horns. I wasn’t willing to risk it.
As the bull disappeared into the bush about 230 meters away Louie said, “Stay on the sticks, he’ll come back out.” Waiting, a wildebeest poked his head out, looked straight up the track at us, pawed, snorted and bolted, taking 4 or 5 of his brethren with him. Louie piped up, “Be ready,” and the kudu bolted across the track. In two strides he was gone.
We had walked 5 miles trying to find and get a shot on the grey ghost. We made a plan for the afternoon with the tracker and began to head back towards camp. Approaching an old cattle kraal as we left, we saw on the far side of it two kudu, a cow and a bull. And he was a monster, the same one we had been looking for all day long.
He had just jumped a 4 strand barbed wire fence and taken two steps when Louie said “Take him if you can.”
In the end, the final shot was almost anticlimactic—flat, 70 yards and pretty wide open. But I had a wicked case of buck fever and my shot was high, hitting him in the neck. Fortunately, it broke his spine and he dropped where he stood.
He was magnificent. It took a few hours before the reality of magnificence sank in. Louie was truly emotional over what an animal he was. The head PH brought out his tape on the horns. It stopped at 60 inches with still more horn to go. Other than the local tracker, no one had seen this animal in the area before. I doubt I’ll see another like him.
I’m still in awe of the kudu. I’d grown up reading Capstick and Ruark and Hemingway. And I’d never dreamed I’d get to hunt kudu in Africa, much less take an animal like this in the wild. We had worked hard for this animal, and other than the tracker, no one had seen him before we had those few days before. Who knows where he would have gone next.
I never did get a warthog though I spent something like 28 hours over waterholes that week trying for one. And I still want a gemsbok too. So I have a reason to go back. Many reasons actually: the people, the animals, the sunsets, the soil—t all gets in your soul. You take what the bush provides, and you come back again.
