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- Club bleu de Gascon, Gascon Saintongeois, Ariegeois
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- South Africa, Mozambique, Zimbabwe, Namibia, Germany, France, Belgium, Austria, Spain, Australia and USA
The state hunting concessions in Mozambique are called Coutadas – translated as wildlife utilisation areas. There are several Coutadas distributed throughout this East African coastal country, but the Zambezi delta collection are renowned Buffalo, Sable and Livingston Eland habitat, plus they form abundant home to tiny antelope like Suni and red Duiker. Years of aggressive civil war severely impacted on wildlife populations, but since 1992 pioneering hunting outfits have battled indiscriminate poaching, corrupt officials, and eroded infrastructures to regenerate a remarkable wildlife haven.
The surviving Leopard population was well educated to avoid presented meat in the form of tree hung bait – a common method of hunting leopard across Africa. Foothold traps, called gintraps in Southern Africa, are a common tool for catching game. Wire snare lines coupled with these indiscriminate gin traps not only capture meat bearing antelope which carry a valued black-market price, but also seize paws of inquisitive cats. Mothers that survive being foot held or cable snared teach their offspring to steer clear of the fat stench of decomposing flesh.
Consequently, if you want to harvest a rosette cat in this environment – put a call in for the hound pack.
This was the setting for a hunt that would credit another level to the layered encounters of my hunting lifestyle.
Being a couple days treacherous drive from Homebase in South Africa, we scheduled a few back-to-back hunts to make the lengthy journey worthwhile. Commencing in Coutada #12 and later shifting to #11, the hunt calendars’ potential had me bursting with expectation and I was not disappointed when the first hunt ended well thereby notching another success in this ambitious houndsmans’ tally.
Just before pulling out of Camp #12 I briefed another view of the magnificent Nyala horns carefully placed above the broad entrance beam, again I thought of how unique this area is, so bursting with majestic Nyala antelope that already I had developed a type of complacency at so regularly seeing them. Being from the South African central bushveld, Nyala are a myth, and now they almost compared in numbers to Impala.
My next destination was Coutada 11, a cruisey couple hour trip along the meandering dirt tracks which lead through intermittent high canopy forest stands connected by open grass plains. There was a good possibility of encountering a lone Sable bull, equally a chance of startling a sounder of Bushpig, both species inhabitancy of the area becoming ever more populous according to the local staff – consequence of motivated anti-poaching operatives funded by hunters’ dollars.
I was to commence another leopard hunt the following day – a group of 3 Canadians, all well experienced bow hunters, expected on the dirt runway ex Beira airport that very afternoon. The father and 2 sons party were chasing Elephant and Buffalo with only 1 leopard sought by the youngest family member.
Three days prior to departing from Coutada 12 my American client had harvested his leopard. I had expected the hunt to end earlier, possibly mid-way through the standard 14-day safari, but had misjudged the movement patters of these unfamiliar forest cats resulting in a sinking of my preferred plan to scout Coutada 12 ground well prior to the Canadian groups’ arrival, thereby putting me a step ahead by the time hunt 2 would begin. Just 2 days prior to the Californians arrival I had marked the patrol of a large tom leopard, his movement paralleled the Marromeu – Inhimitanga railway track as he took full advantage of the casual walking facilitated by the dirt railway service road. He had sprayed his urine at several choice intervals along a short 300m section before an abrupt Southwards turn where his sign rapidly faded into the heavily leaved forest floor. Having had little experience with these forest leopards I based my estimation of his return loop on my cat knowledge drawn from the feline inhabitants of the familiar country further West and South. 7 to 10 days was my prediction but not until day 13 did we detect his return. Even though the habitat was ideal, and prey was abundant in the form of both small and medium antelope, baboon, pigs plus a myriad of small nocturnal Mustelidae and Viverridae, his cycle was more expansive indicating larger territories than I initially factored. There is always the possibility a large kill or receptive female will lengthen the circuit – it’s not a written rule, but a reliable foundation at least. Better late than never however and we tensely took him from his hound driven tree refuge with compound bow, illuminated by a couple 3 cell Mag lights, well before sunrise.
In these Tzetse fly infested areas night work is crucial in attempt to minimise contact with the hounds. The parasitical Trypanasoma protozoa is transmitted during the Tzetse bite resulting in an ugly blood infection that quickly races to fatality. An aggressive prophylactic, coupled with determined measures to avoid exposure, are the methods for reducing the risk to our prized hounds. So, it’s 3am on the road, under the cover of darkness operations, much like the elusive leopard. All the Zambezi delta Coutadas are vast wilderness sections with road networks, bar the main thoroughfares, being seasonal in many cases. Visual discovery of tracks can be challenging where a constant sand base is interrupted by grassy vegetation, so time and distance are the unavoidable equation for track finding success. Ideally the track is discovered, then reeled in by sight tracking where possible, all before sunrise. The earlier the hounds have the scent pumping in and out of their nostrils, the better.
And so it came to be that on such a dark morning, accompanied by a colleague, I steered my landrover alongside an Eastbound mature Tom leopard track. Again I was hugging the railway line but far to the East of the previous hunt, 90 kilometres in fact, according to my basic Garmin navigation unit. And yet again, this cat was also making profit of the strategic travel path. Weaving side to side on the road, no doubt testing the wind for evidence of a potential meal, these tracks read hunting mode and their crisp uncontaminated presentation filled me with optimism as we couldn’t be to many hours behind him. A workable track for sure! I pursued to the point where they veered North into the Miombo woodland, halting right there to prepare the dogs.
Having split our patrolling efforts in order to cover greater area, the location of the second vehicle transporting the bowhunter was unknown. My colleague busied himself with attempting radio contact to notify the other party of our advantage, but without any reply, resorted to the satellite phone and was gratefully met with a response. Very clearly, they were instructed to approach with acute attention to the road as they were travelling into the direction of the cats’ course. It was very likely he was still active and could potentially pop out onto the road several kilometres to the East. An urgent driver could tyre kill critical evidence of the cat’s movement if the focus was purely on reaching our lock.
From where he left the road, a slow and careful tracking of the cats’ spoor both provided me with a general compass direction, plus gave the lead hounds an assisting scent cue for lining out his passage. Just over 30 minutes from the Sat phone call and the whole party was united by the arrival of vehicle 2. Information was shared and discussed while each man readied his equipment and person. The lead hounds remained in the canvas covered tub of the pick-up while I attached leashes to the rest of the pack, now pulling at the unforgiving restrains preventing them from expressing their stored hunt drive. A nod from the company PH and a drop of the tailgate signalled the start of the ride. Michellie and Rosie, littermates of a Bluetick over Bleu de Gascogne cross, hurried directly to the scent flag I had erected with my earlier entry into the forest. A young imported Bluetick – Kimba, hot on their heels, was being schooled on the process the 2 females had come to learn as a norm. This is the moment when a Houndsman feels the pressure, doubt and optimism battle each other like paramount foes - good and evil. Prayer flows internally with every seemingly audible heartbeat.
Nothing.
I can clearly hear the sucking and puffing of the searching noses.
Still nothing.
Just a bit of scent please God – we will take it from there.
Michellie emits a short whine, her tail goes sabre stiff and begins to vibrate like a shacky rev counter needle. Rosie joins her and a rigid jolt of her body signals promise. The ground is offering it up and I cautiously become a believer.
“Boooooo” resounds from a thrown back head, and it starts. Kimba joins the 2 girls, completely unable to resist the call of his genetics while I release another promising candidate, Prince. The leopards’ line of travel is being masterfully revealed and all human spectators are silent in admiration and curiosity.
As the pace begins to pick up several of the freshly inducted handlers physically battle against the hounds pulling on their leashes while their eyes reveal the anticipation pulling on their emotion. We follow deeper into the woodland, lead hounds now well out beyond the immediate tangle of trees and vegetation. Their steady bawls cease, a loss, common and of no concern until they open again both splitting from the already established line. Dilemma! The interpretation could be any of several storylines; perhaps the cat had initiated a stalk and compensated for wind direction? Possibly sidestepped a competing predator only later to resume original travel direction? Regardless I chose to honour Rosie. My faith in her had been established from previous dusty dry hunts where she shined in the Gwaai river area of Zimbabwe, Mopani dominated Southeast Cahorra Bassa and game ranching farms West of Gobabis, Namibia. No need to doubt her judgement now.
An internal voice is nagging me to call Michellie back, but experience tells me to let her be, besides any major vocal interruption could also disrupt the momentum Rosie is generating. Just then young Kimba opens strongly and the power in his deep voice convinces me to enter the rest of the pack. All while we follow the dog songs, I scan the forest floor for tracks and sign but the layers of discarded leaves prohibit any clear view of the powdery sand base. The tempo of the distant pack makes a certain acceleration, and I cannot hide my brewing confidence, sharing happy smiles with the surrounding guys. It sounds like another loss, an unusual pause to the sure bawls, and soon we discover why. The dogs are circling the carcass of a partly eaten adult Nyala ewe. The visible hindquarter has been partway consumed, implying that the leopard had it’s feeding interrupted, and our assessment of the kill is equally interrupted by the roar of the pack leaving the site of the slaying. Not many minutes later I hear the familiar sound of energetic tree barking and know we have him cornered. No one in the party requires an explanation as to what has transpired and collectively we filter towards the bawling fury. Grouping at a good vantage of the hound swarmed tree we try judge the rosetted figure well hidden by the green leaf foliage. All thumbs go up and the company PH tactically positions his client for as clear of a shot as the greenery permits. An arrow could be loosed to cover the 30-meter distance without deflection finally impacting on an exposed section of the cats’ left flank. It’s a quartering away shot and offers almost unimpeded access of the cutting broadhead to rib enclosed vitals. The bowhunter draws and moments later I witness the deadly arrow cutting through forearm muscle - low and left of target. The cat comes boiling out the tree clear over the hounds to their disappointment and makes several athletic bounds before springing directly into another full leaved tree. Herein however he is completely obscured from view and another shot is currently impossible. We wait, we think.
Perhaps the awareness of throbbing injury, perhaps the yapping hounds exposing his now unsafe location, whatever motivated him, he decided to burst dramatically from the confines of leaves and branches, vocally grunting his disgust at his current predicament. The deep growls are an accepted challenge by the hounds and they charge directly after his fleeing shape. We follow - I know well the courage of those key hounds, their compulsion to the fight only being surpassed by own. This is every reason why we engage in this ancient craft. Long seconds later I hear the baying barks. A superb scene reveals itself to my focused eyes, the very reason this story remains fore in my memory, the hounds are circling a large, abandoned termite mound crater. It looks like a mini volcano. Wise enough not to follow the leopard down into its unknown depth, cleverly avoiding the ball of fang, claw and fury, the dogs peer down the gap and can only bark obscenities at its new occupant.
By now the morning sun has warmed the air considerably, the November temperatures in Mozambique are to be respected, monitoring this is just part of the houndsman’s responsibility. I carefully leash and retrieve every hound and with assistance hold them in the ample shade of surrounding trees while we contemplate the next play. There is no way of shooting an arrow into a hidden leopard from the vantage of the entry stroke exit! He must evacuate by his own means.
“Smoke him out” is offered up by someone. Sure, that might work, and I take to wrapping half dry grass around a machete chopped timber pole. When match lit, a light plume of smoke smoulders a trail behind my stalk to the volcano. I tip the fuming bundle into the opening and hurry a retreat expecting the cat to object to the smouldering package, but minutes pass without activity. He seems unaffected by the fire and smoke. When it gradually dissipates, I acknowledge the plan has failed. Repeating the smoke process will likely achieve the same result so while we re-think I call for the agitated hounds to be released, more out of sympathy for their whine and moan expressed frustration, than with any calculated move. They charge the hole with renewed vigour, reviving the leopards’ spirits, and he rapidly erupts out of the pit, sinking claws into an unlucky dogs neck, pulling him in with his return. An instant shudder rushes my nerves and my concern drives me to investigate the scene closely. Already I know it’s my old bushpig hound Wollie – an endearing South African form of the name Wolf – so it delivers great relief when I hear his steady barking. Carefully I peer into the cavern and view the outstretched forelegs of the leopard lying Sphinx style. Big rounded paws backed by a deep rumble. Across from the cat, prudently avoiding eye contact with his foe, lies the SOS barking Wollie. This changes everything, the bow and arrow plan is history. I understand the gravity of my request when I approach the client with an appeal to switch out his current weapon for a Benelli semi auto shotgun, fully trusting that his desire to save the dog that has so fearlessly been in his service this day, equals my own. He graciously accepts and following a quick operations demo, prepares to follow the company PH to the mound once I have restrained the all now panting dogs.
On their knees, the hunter and guide position themselves just off the lip of the dusty gap, barrels slide over sand, the boom ends crudely aimed at the rumbling target. With guns in place I initiate phase 2 of the discussed plan. Grabbing the pole previously used to drop the grassy smoke bomb, I prod an exposed leopard paw and the end is swatted in frustration. Without further reply I try again by prodding the other paw only to receive the same response. Motivated by the pressure of rising temps and thickening humidity, both compellingly risky for thermoregulating canines, plus the immediate hazard to Wollie, I risk a prod at the cats chest by angling the pole steeper and leaning my weight into the resistance. Wild eyes, fierce fangs and a thick neck erupt from the sand misted opening. A swipe of extended claws clip the loose denim material hanging over my right boot, well before my mind has time to process the spectacle my eyes are relaying. Shuddering blasts thunder from the shotguns and the cat disappears into the recess from where he arose. No point holding back now and again I find a the soft form with the end of the pole and apply pressure. He rejects the nuisance and boils out he hole with a swiftness that beats the shotgun wielders reactions. A mid air turn positions his agile frame for an escape into the tree line. Another shotgun blast sends a bunch of pellets charging after the fleeing cat at a rapidity he cannot avoid. Several of the balls make clear impact just before the cat bounds into the woodland and I shout orders for loose leashes.
Full cries fill the forest as I reach into the sand mound and hook Wollie out by his collar. Hot and panting but uninjured he chases after the pack – true to nature. By the nearby resonating bawls I interpret we are going to close this hunt with the most exciting climax to any big cat hunt, the deep chopping barks indicate they have him pinned in a bay-up.
On approach we find him tempting the circling hounds with his exposed belly, laying on his side he offers the trap to any silly hound willing to have a mouthful of the white stomach hair. Non indulge, their restraint steady in the anticipation of the customary audio signal of the gunshot. This time it will be proceeded by a fumbled arrow loosed from just 30 yards, a poorly executed shot by a hunter nearing wits end. The arrow enters the hind leg of the cornered cat and he charges aggressively in true character of his specie. His forceful charge sends the client reeling backward into a tangle of vines and were it not for the successive shots from the PH’s Benelli the angry cat would surely have joined him in the collection of aerial roots. The extreme velocity of a single soft round fired from an adequate rifled bore usually impacts such hydrostatic shock that the fine nervous system of these soft skinned cats is stunned to disfunction, and death follows directly, however the sprayed pellets from a 12 gauge does not replicate this effect and the cat fights the hounds until low blood pressure drops his resistance to death and he slips into his final demise.
No cheers or back slapping. No congratulative shouts or wringing handshakes.
Unhindered emotion from the client is surrounded by subconscious reflection by the collective team.
And now….. in the rich memories of those cohorts…..recalling that grand day…..forever lives that forest cat.
The surviving Leopard population was well educated to avoid presented meat in the form of tree hung bait – a common method of hunting leopard across Africa. Foothold traps, called gintraps in Southern Africa, are a common tool for catching game. Wire snare lines coupled with these indiscriminate gin traps not only capture meat bearing antelope which carry a valued black-market price, but also seize paws of inquisitive cats. Mothers that survive being foot held or cable snared teach their offspring to steer clear of the fat stench of decomposing flesh.
Consequently, if you want to harvest a rosette cat in this environment – put a call in for the hound pack.
This was the setting for a hunt that would credit another level to the layered encounters of my hunting lifestyle.
Being a couple days treacherous drive from Homebase in South Africa, we scheduled a few back-to-back hunts to make the lengthy journey worthwhile. Commencing in Coutada #12 and later shifting to #11, the hunt calendars’ potential had me bursting with expectation and I was not disappointed when the first hunt ended well thereby notching another success in this ambitious houndsmans’ tally.
Just before pulling out of Camp #12 I briefed another view of the magnificent Nyala horns carefully placed above the broad entrance beam, again I thought of how unique this area is, so bursting with majestic Nyala antelope that already I had developed a type of complacency at so regularly seeing them. Being from the South African central bushveld, Nyala are a myth, and now they almost compared in numbers to Impala.
My next destination was Coutada 11, a cruisey couple hour trip along the meandering dirt tracks which lead through intermittent high canopy forest stands connected by open grass plains. There was a good possibility of encountering a lone Sable bull, equally a chance of startling a sounder of Bushpig, both species inhabitancy of the area becoming ever more populous according to the local staff – consequence of motivated anti-poaching operatives funded by hunters’ dollars.
I was to commence another leopard hunt the following day – a group of 3 Canadians, all well experienced bow hunters, expected on the dirt runway ex Beira airport that very afternoon. The father and 2 sons party were chasing Elephant and Buffalo with only 1 leopard sought by the youngest family member.
Three days prior to departing from Coutada 12 my American client had harvested his leopard. I had expected the hunt to end earlier, possibly mid-way through the standard 14-day safari, but had misjudged the movement patters of these unfamiliar forest cats resulting in a sinking of my preferred plan to scout Coutada 12 ground well prior to the Canadian groups’ arrival, thereby putting me a step ahead by the time hunt 2 would begin. Just 2 days prior to the Californians arrival I had marked the patrol of a large tom leopard, his movement paralleled the Marromeu – Inhimitanga railway track as he took full advantage of the casual walking facilitated by the dirt railway service road. He had sprayed his urine at several choice intervals along a short 300m section before an abrupt Southwards turn where his sign rapidly faded into the heavily leaved forest floor. Having had little experience with these forest leopards I based my estimation of his return loop on my cat knowledge drawn from the feline inhabitants of the familiar country further West and South. 7 to 10 days was my prediction but not until day 13 did we detect his return. Even though the habitat was ideal, and prey was abundant in the form of both small and medium antelope, baboon, pigs plus a myriad of small nocturnal Mustelidae and Viverridae, his cycle was more expansive indicating larger territories than I initially factored. There is always the possibility a large kill or receptive female will lengthen the circuit – it’s not a written rule, but a reliable foundation at least. Better late than never however and we tensely took him from his hound driven tree refuge with compound bow, illuminated by a couple 3 cell Mag lights, well before sunrise.
In these Tzetse fly infested areas night work is crucial in attempt to minimise contact with the hounds. The parasitical Trypanasoma protozoa is transmitted during the Tzetse bite resulting in an ugly blood infection that quickly races to fatality. An aggressive prophylactic, coupled with determined measures to avoid exposure, are the methods for reducing the risk to our prized hounds. So, it’s 3am on the road, under the cover of darkness operations, much like the elusive leopard. All the Zambezi delta Coutadas are vast wilderness sections with road networks, bar the main thoroughfares, being seasonal in many cases. Visual discovery of tracks can be challenging where a constant sand base is interrupted by grassy vegetation, so time and distance are the unavoidable equation for track finding success. Ideally the track is discovered, then reeled in by sight tracking where possible, all before sunrise. The earlier the hounds have the scent pumping in and out of their nostrils, the better.
And so it came to be that on such a dark morning, accompanied by a colleague, I steered my landrover alongside an Eastbound mature Tom leopard track. Again I was hugging the railway line but far to the East of the previous hunt, 90 kilometres in fact, according to my basic Garmin navigation unit. And yet again, this cat was also making profit of the strategic travel path. Weaving side to side on the road, no doubt testing the wind for evidence of a potential meal, these tracks read hunting mode and their crisp uncontaminated presentation filled me with optimism as we couldn’t be to many hours behind him. A workable track for sure! I pursued to the point where they veered North into the Miombo woodland, halting right there to prepare the dogs.
Having split our patrolling efforts in order to cover greater area, the location of the second vehicle transporting the bowhunter was unknown. My colleague busied himself with attempting radio contact to notify the other party of our advantage, but without any reply, resorted to the satellite phone and was gratefully met with a response. Very clearly, they were instructed to approach with acute attention to the road as they were travelling into the direction of the cats’ course. It was very likely he was still active and could potentially pop out onto the road several kilometres to the East. An urgent driver could tyre kill critical evidence of the cat’s movement if the focus was purely on reaching our lock.
From where he left the road, a slow and careful tracking of the cats’ spoor both provided me with a general compass direction, plus gave the lead hounds an assisting scent cue for lining out his passage. Just over 30 minutes from the Sat phone call and the whole party was united by the arrival of vehicle 2. Information was shared and discussed while each man readied his equipment and person. The lead hounds remained in the canvas covered tub of the pick-up while I attached leashes to the rest of the pack, now pulling at the unforgiving restrains preventing them from expressing their stored hunt drive. A nod from the company PH and a drop of the tailgate signalled the start of the ride. Michellie and Rosie, littermates of a Bluetick over Bleu de Gascogne cross, hurried directly to the scent flag I had erected with my earlier entry into the forest. A young imported Bluetick – Kimba, hot on their heels, was being schooled on the process the 2 females had come to learn as a norm. This is the moment when a Houndsman feels the pressure, doubt and optimism battle each other like paramount foes - good and evil. Prayer flows internally with every seemingly audible heartbeat.
Nothing.
I can clearly hear the sucking and puffing of the searching noses.
Still nothing.
Just a bit of scent please God – we will take it from there.
Michellie emits a short whine, her tail goes sabre stiff and begins to vibrate like a shacky rev counter needle. Rosie joins her and a rigid jolt of her body signals promise. The ground is offering it up and I cautiously become a believer.
“Boooooo” resounds from a thrown back head, and it starts. Kimba joins the 2 girls, completely unable to resist the call of his genetics while I release another promising candidate, Prince. The leopards’ line of travel is being masterfully revealed and all human spectators are silent in admiration and curiosity.
As the pace begins to pick up several of the freshly inducted handlers physically battle against the hounds pulling on their leashes while their eyes reveal the anticipation pulling on their emotion. We follow deeper into the woodland, lead hounds now well out beyond the immediate tangle of trees and vegetation. Their steady bawls cease, a loss, common and of no concern until they open again both splitting from the already established line. Dilemma! The interpretation could be any of several storylines; perhaps the cat had initiated a stalk and compensated for wind direction? Possibly sidestepped a competing predator only later to resume original travel direction? Regardless I chose to honour Rosie. My faith in her had been established from previous dusty dry hunts where she shined in the Gwaai river area of Zimbabwe, Mopani dominated Southeast Cahorra Bassa and game ranching farms West of Gobabis, Namibia. No need to doubt her judgement now.
An internal voice is nagging me to call Michellie back, but experience tells me to let her be, besides any major vocal interruption could also disrupt the momentum Rosie is generating. Just then young Kimba opens strongly and the power in his deep voice convinces me to enter the rest of the pack. All while we follow the dog songs, I scan the forest floor for tracks and sign but the layers of discarded leaves prohibit any clear view of the powdery sand base. The tempo of the distant pack makes a certain acceleration, and I cannot hide my brewing confidence, sharing happy smiles with the surrounding guys. It sounds like another loss, an unusual pause to the sure bawls, and soon we discover why. The dogs are circling the carcass of a partly eaten adult Nyala ewe. The visible hindquarter has been partway consumed, implying that the leopard had it’s feeding interrupted, and our assessment of the kill is equally interrupted by the roar of the pack leaving the site of the slaying. Not many minutes later I hear the familiar sound of energetic tree barking and know we have him cornered. No one in the party requires an explanation as to what has transpired and collectively we filter towards the bawling fury. Grouping at a good vantage of the hound swarmed tree we try judge the rosetted figure well hidden by the green leaf foliage. All thumbs go up and the company PH tactically positions his client for as clear of a shot as the greenery permits. An arrow could be loosed to cover the 30-meter distance without deflection finally impacting on an exposed section of the cats’ left flank. It’s a quartering away shot and offers almost unimpeded access of the cutting broadhead to rib enclosed vitals. The bowhunter draws and moments later I witness the deadly arrow cutting through forearm muscle - low and left of target. The cat comes boiling out the tree clear over the hounds to their disappointment and makes several athletic bounds before springing directly into another full leaved tree. Herein however he is completely obscured from view and another shot is currently impossible. We wait, we think.
Perhaps the awareness of throbbing injury, perhaps the yapping hounds exposing his now unsafe location, whatever motivated him, he decided to burst dramatically from the confines of leaves and branches, vocally grunting his disgust at his current predicament. The deep growls are an accepted challenge by the hounds and they charge directly after his fleeing shape. We follow - I know well the courage of those key hounds, their compulsion to the fight only being surpassed by own. This is every reason why we engage in this ancient craft. Long seconds later I hear the baying barks. A superb scene reveals itself to my focused eyes, the very reason this story remains fore in my memory, the hounds are circling a large, abandoned termite mound crater. It looks like a mini volcano. Wise enough not to follow the leopard down into its unknown depth, cleverly avoiding the ball of fang, claw and fury, the dogs peer down the gap and can only bark obscenities at its new occupant.
By now the morning sun has warmed the air considerably, the November temperatures in Mozambique are to be respected, monitoring this is just part of the houndsman’s responsibility. I carefully leash and retrieve every hound and with assistance hold them in the ample shade of surrounding trees while we contemplate the next play. There is no way of shooting an arrow into a hidden leopard from the vantage of the entry stroke exit! He must evacuate by his own means.
“Smoke him out” is offered up by someone. Sure, that might work, and I take to wrapping half dry grass around a machete chopped timber pole. When match lit, a light plume of smoke smoulders a trail behind my stalk to the volcano. I tip the fuming bundle into the opening and hurry a retreat expecting the cat to object to the smouldering package, but minutes pass without activity. He seems unaffected by the fire and smoke. When it gradually dissipates, I acknowledge the plan has failed. Repeating the smoke process will likely achieve the same result so while we re-think I call for the agitated hounds to be released, more out of sympathy for their whine and moan expressed frustration, than with any calculated move. They charge the hole with renewed vigour, reviving the leopards’ spirits, and he rapidly erupts out of the pit, sinking claws into an unlucky dogs neck, pulling him in with his return. An instant shudder rushes my nerves and my concern drives me to investigate the scene closely. Already I know it’s my old bushpig hound Wollie – an endearing South African form of the name Wolf – so it delivers great relief when I hear his steady barking. Carefully I peer into the cavern and view the outstretched forelegs of the leopard lying Sphinx style. Big rounded paws backed by a deep rumble. Across from the cat, prudently avoiding eye contact with his foe, lies the SOS barking Wollie. This changes everything, the bow and arrow plan is history. I understand the gravity of my request when I approach the client with an appeal to switch out his current weapon for a Benelli semi auto shotgun, fully trusting that his desire to save the dog that has so fearlessly been in his service this day, equals my own. He graciously accepts and following a quick operations demo, prepares to follow the company PH to the mound once I have restrained the all now panting dogs.
On their knees, the hunter and guide position themselves just off the lip of the dusty gap, barrels slide over sand, the boom ends crudely aimed at the rumbling target. With guns in place I initiate phase 2 of the discussed plan. Grabbing the pole previously used to drop the grassy smoke bomb, I prod an exposed leopard paw and the end is swatted in frustration. Without further reply I try again by prodding the other paw only to receive the same response. Motivated by the pressure of rising temps and thickening humidity, both compellingly risky for thermoregulating canines, plus the immediate hazard to Wollie, I risk a prod at the cats chest by angling the pole steeper and leaning my weight into the resistance. Wild eyes, fierce fangs and a thick neck erupt from the sand misted opening. A swipe of extended claws clip the loose denim material hanging over my right boot, well before my mind has time to process the spectacle my eyes are relaying. Shuddering blasts thunder from the shotguns and the cat disappears into the recess from where he arose. No point holding back now and again I find a the soft form with the end of the pole and apply pressure. He rejects the nuisance and boils out he hole with a swiftness that beats the shotgun wielders reactions. A mid air turn positions his agile frame for an escape into the tree line. Another shotgun blast sends a bunch of pellets charging after the fleeing cat at a rapidity he cannot avoid. Several of the balls make clear impact just before the cat bounds into the woodland and I shout orders for loose leashes.
Full cries fill the forest as I reach into the sand mound and hook Wollie out by his collar. Hot and panting but uninjured he chases after the pack – true to nature. By the nearby resonating bawls I interpret we are going to close this hunt with the most exciting climax to any big cat hunt, the deep chopping barks indicate they have him pinned in a bay-up.
On approach we find him tempting the circling hounds with his exposed belly, laying on his side he offers the trap to any silly hound willing to have a mouthful of the white stomach hair. Non indulge, their restraint steady in the anticipation of the customary audio signal of the gunshot. This time it will be proceeded by a fumbled arrow loosed from just 30 yards, a poorly executed shot by a hunter nearing wits end. The arrow enters the hind leg of the cornered cat and he charges aggressively in true character of his specie. His forceful charge sends the client reeling backward into a tangle of vines and were it not for the successive shots from the PH’s Benelli the angry cat would surely have joined him in the collection of aerial roots. The extreme velocity of a single soft round fired from an adequate rifled bore usually impacts such hydrostatic shock that the fine nervous system of these soft skinned cats is stunned to disfunction, and death follows directly, however the sprayed pellets from a 12 gauge does not replicate this effect and the cat fights the hounds until low blood pressure drops his resistance to death and he slips into his final demise.
No cheers or back slapping. No congratulative shouts or wringing handshakes.
Unhindered emotion from the client is surrounded by subconscious reflection by the collective team.
And now….. in the rich memories of those cohorts…..recalling that grand day…..forever lives that forest cat.
