SD-4
This day’s plan was to hunt some new ground and hopefully sort out a dandy Black Wildebeest, and/or at least one Red Hartebeest (Tom and I each wanted one). Then if the opportunity presented itself, possibly a Springbok. To my eye this area’s topography and cover somewhat matched the stereotypical Serengeti grasslands. There were one or two broad canyons with rocky cliffs, but mostly wide rolling grassland, broken intermittently by tracts of brush and thorn trees.
The weather was quite pleasant, being mostly sunny, temp low enough to not overheat, with winds at about 10-12 mph and gusting to about 20 mph. I made a mental note of the wind speed in case the shooting range became long enough for windage to be needed.
From the bakkie we could see intermingled herds of animals including Blesbok, Impala, Springbok, Red Hartebeest, Black Wildebeest, Bontebok, and Blue Wildebeest. We glassed the herds of Hartebeest and Blacks for an individual specimen worthy to pursue. Marius was quickly drawn not to a herd of Blacks, but a lone bull that was well outside the herd that grazed some 400 yds apart from him. Close examination by spotting scope revealed him to be an old warrior, likely one that had been displaced and chased from the herd by the new dominant bull. The stalk would not be a walk in the park however. The old buggar was surrounded by other plains game with lots of eyes. I already knew the question was
not whether we’d make a go for him, but by which route, and could I pull it off even with Marius’ guidance. The bull was the better part of a mile away and there would be a lot of eyes scattered across open ground to remain invisible to. What would the stalk entail?
We backtracked into a ravine, and crossed over behind a broken stand of brush and trees. Then by keeping the cover between us and the cautious eyes we managed to close the distance to a bit over 300 yds. From our hide, the bull was standing in clear view. I was on the sticks, watching to see what the old bull might do, while we quietly chatted about our options. I asked Marius for the range. He answered “318 yds”. I replied “ok” which I later realized left him a bit unsettled. That night he asked why I simply said “ok” to the range of 318 yds. I smiled and answered, “Because it was ok. Aren’t all your clients expert long-range marksmen?” (most PH’s aren’t properly calibrated unless you poke them once a day!) His question nor the option of my taking that shot never arose because the bull promptly laid down and all but disappeared. Marius pointed out two small clusters of bushes in the tall grass that might allow us to crawl undetected, below the line of sight, right up to the raised berm of a dried water hole. If successful, the shot distance might be cut almost in half. So like a long gruesomely jointed, creature we crawled head to foot, four of us, through the grass and two scrub bushes/trees, right up to the berm. I kept my head down, relying on the feet in front of me for guidance. When we got to the base of berm, we could not be sure the bull was still there. Hope and a big dose of willful intent was all we had.
Marius gestured for us to stay, then slowly pushed himself along the ground to peer over the berm lip. Slowly his binos were brought to his eyes, and just as slowly he slithered back to us below the berm. He gestured to follow him. So we belly crawled about 10 yards farther down the curved berm to make the shooting angle off the berm closer to 90 degrees, reducing the amount of grass the bullet needed to clear. Slowly Marius crawled back to the lip, then even farther until his lower legs and boots were all I could see. An eternity later, or maybe a minute, his hand appeared and told me I needed to hand up my rifle. Then “the hand” told me to belly crawl along-side of him and get behind my rifle.
The grass was several inches above the rifle barrel making both vision and bullet path bothersome. I passed him my binos to raise the rest, then motioned for brother Tom to pass up Dad’s hunting fanny pack that Tom was wearing in his memory. After Marius stacked them, I slid the rifle back in place on top and made ready for the shot. The bull was now standing, but not looking at us. “Distance?” I asked. The whispered reply came “167,…. but wait”. Wait? Wait! You gotta be friggin kidding me?! Marius signaled behind him that he wanted his sticks. From behind the berm lip, the tracker slid them forward on the ground to him. Marius then slid his collapsed sticks below my barrel and swept them forward a few inches to cause the grass to lay down flat directly in front of my muzzle. At that point he whispered, “shoot when ready”.
The old bull was standing perfectly still at 167 yards, slightly quartering away. When the shot broke, he bolted even before the sound of the bullet’s impact reached our ears. His explosive charge at the shot led me to fear it was a poorly placed hit. I immediately cycled the rifle bolt and prepared for a follow-up should the opportunity be presented. The bull sprinted at least 300 yards wide open, back toward the herd, and dropped dead mid stride before reaching them. I have never before seen a demonstration of such sheer strength and will to survive. The bullet found its proper mark. The old bull actually sprinted that 300 yards, in seconds, without a breath.
His teeth were nearly gone, but what a beautiful animal! White eye lashes, heavy whiskers, beard and tall nose scruff. Definitely a rugged handsomeness I can relate to. I didn’t realize how rugged until the crew started to laugh at me. The ultra-flat prone shooting position caused me to receive the very first “scope bite” of my life. And a dandy one to boot. It’s a mark I’ll proudly carry to my grave. Funny, I didn’t feel a thing.
A trip to the skinning shed with the Black provided us a break for lunch. We were all pretty hungry and rather dehydrated. Box lunches (too much to eat) , cold drinks, and a mug of hot coffee from Marius’ backpack coffee kit were exactly what we needed. The pictures below show the scene at the old homestead where we took our lunch.
To be continued…..
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