- Joined
- Jul 16, 2024
- Messages
- 696
- Reaction score
- 2,570
- Location
- LONDON
- Website
- www.johnrigbyandco.com
- Deals & offers
- 15
- Media
- 37
- Articles
- 32
We are pleased to share the fourth instalment of our Rigby Community in the Field series.
Created to honour the character, spirit and experiences of those who carry a Rigby afield, this series gives voice to the men and women who form our global community. Each story is presented in the hunter’s own words wherever possible, preserving the authenticity, perspective and personality behind the pursuit.
In this latest episode, we travel to the wild heart of Tanzania, where one hunter recounts his long-anticipated encounter with Africa’s most formidable quarry. It is a story not simply of buffalo, but of longing, heritage and the enduring call of adventure – with a Rigby in hand.
Rigby Community in the Field: Cameron Kidd
Perched high above the banks of the mighty Ruhudji and idyllically situated amongst the labyrinth of sprawling flora and jungle-esque vines, this rustic aberration of canvas and mosquito netting of remote Tanzania is soon to be the home I’ve dreamt about for over a year now.
The acrid smell of smoke hangs heavy in the morning air as the coals from last night’s fire still glimmer softly, with a hopeful glow of renewal as they fade with the arrival of the impending morning sun. That first sip of coffee is more than welcome as we quietly sit, watching the world come alive and trying our best to shake off the sleepy haze trying its best to keep its grip on our travel-weary souls.
In the distance, birds of all kinds announce their delight of a new day and the hippos honking and splashing about also seem to share in their rejoicing. There is one animal that remains silent, however, and his shadow lurking just beneath the surface of the seemingly calm waters is a stark reminder that I am simply a visitor here… and I better watch my step!
It was mid-morning on the sixth day, and the sun was beginning to become abrasive as we crouched low in the korongo. We were making our way alongside the unaware herd of inyati, trying to locate the dagga boy we knew was finding solace and security in the feeding group.
I could hear my heart beginning to beat in my ears as we closed the distance on the herd, as their hoof beats and low guttural growls grew louder with each step. The Rigby felt heavy in my hands as I fought to control the building nerves of the seemingly imminent face-off with the quarry we had traveled halfway around the world to pursue.
You see, the buffalo himself is fine indeed, however, the pursuit of him is simply the catalyst to satisfy a primal longing for adventure!
To properly chase mbogo is not to whack some unsuspecting beast, but to steady one’s nerves against an animal that not only has the capacity, but in some cases, the outright desire to deal one’s final blow. Even the hunter of most esteemed notoriety can find himself paralyzed with fear at the impending collision with the inbound inyati, unable to see him but only hear the thunderous beat of plate-sized hooves belonging to the sheer, rage-fueled locomotive as he quickly closes the gap deep within the impenetrable long grass.
Now face to face with the quarry I have dreamed of facing, I am hoping I can control my emotions and keep my composure as we fight to find the bull. I can still hear Zidane’s voice calmly say, “He’s on the left side of the herd… he’s the white one”. “Wait, did you say wide or white?” I mutter frantically. “White,” he exclaims. Again, I heard as I confirmed “Wide right?” The calm voice grew heavier and simply said “Mzungu!” Got it, White.
Almost instantaneously, I can see the bull lift his head and his ash white face showed up brightly against the black silhouette of his comrades. The crosshairs settle calmly on the forefront of his shoulder as Zidane says, “if you got him, take him”.
The collapse of the trigger created enough recoil to lose my bearings and an immediate cloud of impenetrable dust as the herd thundered off at the report of the rifle. The only thing left behind was a pile of flattened mbogo which was apparently as surprised by the mighty .416 Rigby as I was; I might even dare say more so.
It’s almost impossible to capture in words the emotion one feels when walking up to any animal after a hunt, especially a buffalo that’s very presence evicts so much fear and demands so much respect. The elation, the relief, the honor, the privilege, the heat, the friendships, the effort, all the miles, all the preparation, all the planning, all the sacrifice, and all the passion is concentrated in this very moment. It is almost overwhelming and will forever be consecrated, not only in memory, but into my very soul.
I think I was born with it, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that there is this longing in my soul that yearns for adventure, and the call of the Dark Continent is constant.
I was born a hunter but not privileged to travel, yet at an early age there was always a burning desire for all things Africa. It dictates what boots I wear, what cartridge I shoot, and what rifle I choose to carry.
To carry a Rigby is the very definition of functional elegance, amongst a backdrop of wilderness and chaos. To carry a Rigby on this hallowed corner of the dark continent is to be rooted in a long list of prestigious hunters who trod this same stretch of land over 100 years ago, in pursuit of ivory, adventure, and the purest form of freedom. It’s not just a rifle; it is a vestigial bond providing a small remnant window of what used to be and is still the greatest adventure of our modern world… SAFARI!
Created to honour the character, spirit and experiences of those who carry a Rigby afield, this series gives voice to the men and women who form our global community. Each story is presented in the hunter’s own words wherever possible, preserving the authenticity, perspective and personality behind the pursuit.
In this latest episode, we travel to the wild heart of Tanzania, where one hunter recounts his long-anticipated encounter with Africa’s most formidable quarry. It is a story not simply of buffalo, but of longing, heritage and the enduring call of adventure – with a Rigby in hand.
Rigby Community in the Field: Cameron Kidd
Perched high above the banks of the mighty Ruhudji and idyllically situated amongst the labyrinth of sprawling flora and jungle-esque vines, this rustic aberration of canvas and mosquito netting of remote Tanzania is soon to be the home I’ve dreamt about for over a year now.
The acrid smell of smoke hangs heavy in the morning air as the coals from last night’s fire still glimmer softly, with a hopeful glow of renewal as they fade with the arrival of the impending morning sun. That first sip of coffee is more than welcome as we quietly sit, watching the world come alive and trying our best to shake off the sleepy haze trying its best to keep its grip on our travel-weary souls.
In the distance, birds of all kinds announce their delight of a new day and the hippos honking and splashing about also seem to share in their rejoicing. There is one animal that remains silent, however, and his shadow lurking just beneath the surface of the seemingly calm waters is a stark reminder that I am simply a visitor here… and I better watch my step!
It was mid-morning on the sixth day, and the sun was beginning to become abrasive as we crouched low in the korongo. We were making our way alongside the unaware herd of inyati, trying to locate the dagga boy we knew was finding solace and security in the feeding group.
I could hear my heart beginning to beat in my ears as we closed the distance on the herd, as their hoof beats and low guttural growls grew louder with each step. The Rigby felt heavy in my hands as I fought to control the building nerves of the seemingly imminent face-off with the quarry we had traveled halfway around the world to pursue.
You see, the buffalo himself is fine indeed, however, the pursuit of him is simply the catalyst to satisfy a primal longing for adventure!
To properly chase mbogo is not to whack some unsuspecting beast, but to steady one’s nerves against an animal that not only has the capacity, but in some cases, the outright desire to deal one’s final blow. Even the hunter of most esteemed notoriety can find himself paralyzed with fear at the impending collision with the inbound inyati, unable to see him but only hear the thunderous beat of plate-sized hooves belonging to the sheer, rage-fueled locomotive as he quickly closes the gap deep within the impenetrable long grass.
Now face to face with the quarry I have dreamed of facing, I am hoping I can control my emotions and keep my composure as we fight to find the bull. I can still hear Zidane’s voice calmly say, “He’s on the left side of the herd… he’s the white one”. “Wait, did you say wide or white?” I mutter frantically. “White,” he exclaims. Again, I heard as I confirmed “Wide right?” The calm voice grew heavier and simply said “Mzungu!” Got it, White.
Almost instantaneously, I can see the bull lift his head and his ash white face showed up brightly against the black silhouette of his comrades. The crosshairs settle calmly on the forefront of his shoulder as Zidane says, “if you got him, take him”.
The collapse of the trigger created enough recoil to lose my bearings and an immediate cloud of impenetrable dust as the herd thundered off at the report of the rifle. The only thing left behind was a pile of flattened mbogo which was apparently as surprised by the mighty .416 Rigby as I was; I might even dare say more so.
It’s almost impossible to capture in words the emotion one feels when walking up to any animal after a hunt, especially a buffalo that’s very presence evicts so much fear and demands so much respect. The elation, the relief, the honor, the privilege, the heat, the friendships, the effort, all the miles, all the preparation, all the planning, all the sacrifice, and all the passion is concentrated in this very moment. It is almost overwhelming and will forever be consecrated, not only in memory, but into my very soul.
I think I was born with it, but I don’t know for sure. What I do know is that there is this longing in my soul that yearns for adventure, and the call of the Dark Continent is constant.
I was born a hunter but not privileged to travel, yet at an early age there was always a burning desire for all things Africa. It dictates what boots I wear, what cartridge I shoot, and what rifle I choose to carry.
To carry a Rigby is the very definition of functional elegance, amongst a backdrop of wilderness and chaos. To carry a Rigby on this hallowed corner of the dark continent is to be rooted in a long list of prestigious hunters who trod this same stretch of land over 100 years ago, in pursuit of ivory, adventure, and the purest form of freedom. It’s not just a rifle; it is a vestigial bond providing a small remnant window of what used to be and is still the greatest adventure of our modern world… SAFARI!
