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The smell of decaying hippo flesh crept through the walls of the grass and stick box we had built. We hoped it would be like that. The hunter's rifle was loaded and hot as we waited patiently for the sun to sink over the patch of riverine forest where we laid in wait. It was a great and unique location but not uncommonly so for places like this; these last wild places all seem to have a river that pulls man and beast together. There were lions in this basin along with elephant, hippo, buffalo and leopard.
The hippo was shot 4 days ago. Executed with a perfect brain shot in the shallow waters of the river. Handy deal as we could immediately retrieve it and convert it into 5 lion baits. It was an old bull separated from the pod. Most likely dethroned by a younger and stronger bull. His body was more scar than skin; suffering an untold number of fights while gaining, retaining and ultimately loosing his breeding rights to the 20 cows just 200 yards away.
The low light was playing it's tricks in the bush when we heard the steps behind us. He paused then brushed past the blind crossing directly infront of the hole that held the rifle. He was five steps away, facing directly away. The lion headed directly to the bait without any variation in his course or speed.
The hunter was ready and could have killed him then and there. A .375 H&H would penetrate all the way into the vitals on a soft skinned animal like a cat. It was seconds from too dark. The tail with the missing tuft flicked side to side as he walk to the bait. We knew it was the right cat but it was so close to dark that you questioned what your eyes told you. The only shot was from behind. We thought he would check up, pause or even turn presenting a clean shot for a quick kill. The lion did not.
The canopy of the tree holding the hippo made the lion instantly invisible. It was my duty to call the shot, I did not.
Too dark... All we could do was sit there in the pitch black listening to him tear at the bait. He fed on and off throughout the night. The lion vanished from the bait in the dark hours of the morning and then from the area. The meat was too far gone and so was short-tail. We hoped sunrise would present an opportunity, it did not.
We sat twice more. Nothing.
I played this hunt over in my mind more times than is healthy. It was a great sight and an excellent moment but I was upset. The go ahead to shoot was my call and I wanted to give the ok in a way only a hunter who's been in this setting can realize. 23 years in hunting big things in remote Africa will make you fairly risk tolerant. It also will make you listen to that little voice. That voice inside that told me to hold up that evening in the blind. The risk in that moment for some reason was a step too far. This was the right lion - old, out of any big pride, huge body, fantastic mane and surely 8 to 9 years old. This was the right situation and the right hunter. I guess it was the risk of the facing away shot in the low light... maybe it was out of respect and a feeling toward this creatures fantastic story. Or maybe it just happened too fast.
It took about 10 months before we were able to get back into the camp for another drag at it. We had one cat on our mind. The stories from other hunters and the local trackers as well as the fisherman went back 6 or 7 seasons. Besides the missing tail on a massive lion they all seem to end the same. The story always ended with the lion leaving once he knew people were around (not activity of people but actual people on-site near the bait). The stories also went back over several years so the feeling was that he had to be about 9 years old now, maybe 10. That is pretty old for a lion in the wild especially in this type of terrain. It wasn't the kind of bush that supported big prides with many skilled lionesses to keep an old boy healthy and in the meat. This was not the Serengetti it was rough and thick. You ou struggled to get through and see clearly.
We had a plan and went to work. After 7 days we didnt find anything that seemed to get us closer to this lion with the exception of one sandy track that the boys swore was from him. That track went between our baits and off in the wrong direction but it was a clue. The trackers were confinvinced that track was his. After a couple meetings we decided the best course of action was to range out towards a cluster of small waterholes seldom visited. All his usual haunts were covered with blood, guts and meat. This lion was hunting in another place or simply gone.
The plan was to try for buffalo in the morning then to spend the rest of the day exploring that new area. Buffalo tracks were located early enough. We unloaded the truck and loaded the rifles. Within an hour we could hear the buffalo. As we stood listening to them a letting the hunt play out we heard a shot. It was right near the herd we were hunting and could only mean one thing. Surprise quickly turned to concern ass two poachers revealed themselves as they went to inspect their damage. They didnt see us. Our game scout broke early and ran after them along with one of our trackers. I followed them and the chase escalated quickly into a foot race through the forest. As we closed in we found blood. Now we had a wounded Buffalo and at least 3 armed poachers somewhere in front. The scout paused and started to whistle like a bird. His cleaver plan was called the scattered poachers back to us. It worked and one came into our sight. At 50 meters he noticed we were not who he had thought (or most likely picked out the crouched white fella) and the foot race was back on. Before we could close much distance we ran right into the wounded Buffalo. He was sick but very much alive. I finished him off and that ended the chase. As disappointing and dangerous as this was, we now had more bait thanks to the well placed slug of the poacher. The shot was from a muzzleloader and it must have been from less than 60 meters as 3 holes were right behind the bulls shoulder. They appeared to have loaded one main slug and then a couple 'bonus balls' behind it. The slug went far enough unside to puncture his lungs the balls of reformed lead where inside as well.
On our way to this new area with a truck load of buffalo meat and plenty of morning excitment behind us the most junior man on the truck excitedly hit me on the shoulder - simba! simba! pointing off to our left with a shaking finger.
There he was. Just 80 meters off the road, Sitting there with an irritated look that said "really boys - it took you 11 days to find me..." We couldn't be 100% sure it was him but it was a trophy cat. I saw a mature old cat by himself and we were lion hunting so off we went. He moved out of range well before we had any sort of a chance. The hunter saw his tail, it was him. I called the stalk off as pushing him would be a mistake. Back to the truck; i knew how to get him. We dropped a drag and a lot of scent where he was, checked the wind vs his ditection of travel and made a 800 meter drag to an average looking spot and a little tree. But this is where we had to roll the dice it was the right location for sure as I knew his location. Only one direction could screw us and there was nothing for him that way - no road no water no buffalo.
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Part 1 of 3.
