This is a continuation of my story.
In the heart of the African wilderness, there was a notorious Dagga Boy—a solitary buffalo bull known for his cunning and strength—residing close to our camp. Though he remained elusive, his tracks were a daily reminder of his presence, appearing each morning on the dirt roads or in the sandy riverbed.
Our first attempt to hunt him took place one afternoon. We followed his tracks deep into the thick bush, but despite our best efforts, we never caught up with him. As darkness fell, we had no choice but to abandon the pursuit, leaving us with a sense of unfinished business.
The following afternoon, we stumbled upon fresh tracks that crossed a dirt road near the river. My professional hunter, Gavin, decided to send one of our trackers to follow the bull's path. Meanwhile, the rest of us—Gavin, myself, and two other trackers—descended into the riverbed, convinced that the bull would cross it once more. Sure enough, we soon found his tracks on the sandy bank.
We settled into the shade of a small patch of tall bushes (blue rectangle on the map), waiting for our tracker to rejoin us.
It was then that the unexpected happened. Out of nowhere, a bull breaking branches and small trees roared through the bush, just ten yards away from our resting spot. Our hearts raced as we realized our guns chambers were empty; we had never anticipated such a close encounter with the infamous Black Death.
Fortunately, the bull was not charging, but instead fled away from us, disappearing into the thick underbrush before we could react. By the time Gavin had chambered a round, the Dagga Boy was already long gone.
We quietly followed his tracks for another quarter mile when we heard him crashing through the bushes again. He paused at a small opening behind a couple of large trees. Gavin pointed him out, but I never caught a glimpse before he bolted once more. It was astonishing how such a massive black bull could vanish into thin air just fifty yards away. I had only two or three seconds to shoot at the running animal, but I never even had a chance to shoulder my rifle.
At this point, Gavin devised an alternative plan. We discovered a dried-out stream that curved around the dense patch of woods where we suspected the bull was hiding. We decided to position ourselves in the streambed and wait for our trackers to flush the bull out. Unfortunately, the plan didn’t pan out, and as darkness fell once again, we were forced to halt our adventure and go back to camp.
Next morning we came across bulls tracks almost at the same spot on the road as previous afternoon This time, Gavin sent our two most experienced trackers to follow the bull's tracks while we dropped back into the wide riverbed, hoping the bull would cross again. Our anticipation heightened as we began to hear him crashing through the thick brush toward the riverbank. He stopped, his backside toward us, glancing back at the trackers who were in pursuit. Once again, I couldn’t see him in time to line up my shot, and just like that, he vanished into the bush.
We repositioned ourselves further down the riverbed based on the sounds of his movement. Then, to our excitement, he burst out of the underbrush and began running across the riverbed, roughly 90 to 100 yards away. In a flurry of adrenaline, we fired three shots, and the bull collapsed behind a small bush on the opposite side of the river. However, it took five more shots to finally put him down for good.
As I stood there, heart racing and breathless, I realized this was not just any hunt; it was my 66th birthday. The thrill of the chase, the challenge of the hunt, and the ultimate success made it the best birthday present I could have ever wished for. I was ecstatic, not just for the trophy, but for the adventure that would forever be etched in my memory.
In the heart of the African wilderness, there was a notorious Dagga Boy—a solitary buffalo bull known for his cunning and strength—residing close to our camp. Though he remained elusive, his tracks were a daily reminder of his presence, appearing each morning on the dirt roads or in the sandy riverbed.
Our first attempt to hunt him took place one afternoon. We followed his tracks deep into the thick bush, but despite our best efforts, we never caught up with him. As darkness fell, we had no choice but to abandon the pursuit, leaving us with a sense of unfinished business.
The following afternoon, we stumbled upon fresh tracks that crossed a dirt road near the river. My professional hunter, Gavin, decided to send one of our trackers to follow the bull's path. Meanwhile, the rest of us—Gavin, myself, and two other trackers—descended into the riverbed, convinced that the bull would cross it once more. Sure enough, we soon found his tracks on the sandy bank.
We settled into the shade of a small patch of tall bushes (blue rectangle on the map), waiting for our tracker to rejoin us.
It was then that the unexpected happened. Out of nowhere, a bull breaking branches and small trees roared through the bush, just ten yards away from our resting spot. Our hearts raced as we realized our guns chambers were empty; we had never anticipated such a close encounter with the infamous Black Death.
Fortunately, the bull was not charging, but instead fled away from us, disappearing into the thick underbrush before we could react. By the time Gavin had chambered a round, the Dagga Boy was already long gone.
We quietly followed his tracks for another quarter mile when we heard him crashing through the bushes again. He paused at a small opening behind a couple of large trees. Gavin pointed him out, but I never caught a glimpse before he bolted once more. It was astonishing how such a massive black bull could vanish into thin air just fifty yards away. I had only two or three seconds to shoot at the running animal, but I never even had a chance to shoulder my rifle.
At this point, Gavin devised an alternative plan. We discovered a dried-out stream that curved around the dense patch of woods where we suspected the bull was hiding. We decided to position ourselves in the streambed and wait for our trackers to flush the bull out. Unfortunately, the plan didn’t pan out, and as darkness fell once again, we were forced to halt our adventure and go back to camp.
Next morning we came across bulls tracks almost at the same spot on the road as previous afternoon This time, Gavin sent our two most experienced trackers to follow the bull's tracks while we dropped back into the wide riverbed, hoping the bull would cross again. Our anticipation heightened as we began to hear him crashing through the thick brush toward the riverbank. He stopped, his backside toward us, glancing back at the trackers who were in pursuit. Once again, I couldn’t see him in time to line up my shot, and just like that, he vanished into the bush.
We repositioned ourselves further down the riverbed based on the sounds of his movement. Then, to our excitement, he burst out of the underbrush and began running across the riverbed, roughly 90 to 100 yards away. In a flurry of adrenaline, we fired three shots, and the bull collapsed behind a small bush on the opposite side of the river. However, it took five more shots to finally put him down for good.
As I stood there, heart racing and breathless, I realized this was not just any hunt; it was my 66th birthday. The thrill of the chase, the challenge of the hunt, and the ultimate success made it the best birthday present I could have ever wished for. I was ecstatic, not just for the trophy, but for the adventure that would forever be etched in my memory.
