SOUTH AFRICA: Notes On A First Safari

[gadwallop]

This isn’t quite a traditional hunting report. I won’t name the outfitter I used, though you might reasonably guess where I was. But I know you’re reading this either because you’ve already caught the Africa bug (not monkeypox), or you want to join the party and see what this is all about. Well, come one, come all, laugh and gawk at my rookie failures, learn from my mistakes, witness where I thought I did well, and help others be better prepared when they take the leap into this crazy, expensive, singular, and exhausting experience that’s claimed the heart of many a hunter for centuries.

My biggest takeaways:
- Relish the preparation.
- Decide what matters most to you before booking – trophy size, experience, lodging, hunting style, etc.
- Come with a thorough plan, but keep an open mind.
- There are not as many animals as there are at the zoo, and they do not want to die.
- Have a sit-down meeting with your PH when you arrive to discuss your expectations and limitations.
- You are a stranger in a strange land. You are a paying client, but you are still a guest – if you wear out your welcome, Lord help you.

If you’ve made it past the BLUF, welcome, here’s my story, thanks for your time, stay as long as you like.

Pics and posts to follow.

 

[gadwallop]

Limiting a bullet point or paragraph to “prep” would be short-selling how important and wide-reaching the preparation aspect of your safari will be. I don’t know of anyone who planned any less than a year for their safari, even the fellas who’ve already been there and back again. If you search surely you’ll find a wild-hair weekender safari type, but the exception may prove the rule. We ended up booking with our outfitter based on a package my wife and I won at a conservation auction in early 2020. It was a week-ish long package for two hunters and two guests in the Limpopo province with a few donated plains game trophies. The intent is to get you in the door first, and then you purchase more animals once you get there. It was a good deal, and a fair price, and the business model wasn’t a gimmick; we knew we’d end up spending a little more money than the initial price tag when it was all said and done. My wife and I took it as the excuse we needed to get us to pull the trigger and finally commit to a hunting safari. Though not a spur of the moment decision, this came together for us a few years earlier than I ever imagined it would.

Now, given my druthers, and if I had to do it all over again, I would shop around. I would shop shop shop every outfitter, every country, for as long I could spare before fully committing to one. Ask guys going to one of your prospective outfitters to send back a video of the lodgings. Ask about hidden costs, or what felt different than advertised to them. Ask what was just plain ole surprising. I would recommend going out of your way to find recent clients in the same boat as you – new, with a fresh perspective, and no reason to bullshit you. My wife and I ended up with over a year and a half to plan our safari after our package was purchased, and we didn’t do any independent journalism of our own. Every word written about the outfitter on the internet we found and read, but this led us to suffer from the “silent majority” conundrum—if someone had a mediocre or sub-par time, they have no incentive to write about it. Glowing and glaring reviews are all you’ll ever find. Who takes the time to write out their “meh” experience? Perhaps if we had dug deeper, we would have found other clients who ended up more like us.

As it was, we prepared for our safari knowing of only the glowing reviews and checking daily the outfitter’s rather active Facebook page. This gave us an incomplete, but not altogether false, picture of animal quality and quantity, client satisfaction, and atmosphere of the camp itself. Next time, I will go out of my way to dig deep into an outfitter to truly get a complete picture of what exactly I’m purchasing. Close isn’t good enough when it’s a once-in-a-lifetime kind of adventure.
What I had purchased – on that note – was a plains game package, with an option for reasonably discounted add-on animals. I am a life-long waterfowler, a shotgunner, with my only rifle training courtesy of Uncle Sam and just a little bit of big game hunting experience. I’m a rather fine outdoorsman though, again thanks to a fair share of government-mandated camping over the past few years, so I felt I would be up to the task of jumping head-first into hunting African game. A little cockiness, a little confidence.

This mindset and chip on my shoulder led me to where I did the very best in my prep for the safari: I studied. I studied every animal in the Bushveld, learning about their tracks, habits, spoor, vitals, noises, and more. I learned about the Afrikaaners, and a hundred-plus years of modern hunters on the continent. I learned a passable amount of Afrikaans, and how to say something like “Good morning” in Tswana. I read a whole lot of you guys on this forum. I ate it all up. This made all the difference in the world.

This turned the hunt from lasting five days to lasting nearly two years!

Relish the opportunity to prepare. It’s like a good gumbo – the longer you let it sit, the better it will get. You’re really only limited by how long you can wait until you need to eat.

 

[gadwallop]

This long-form studying did have some pitfalls, though—your wife can only hear so many times about the various subspecies of the bushbuck. While I joke, she was a loving and supporting partner in this venture, what I failed to do was expect a similar level of personal investment among our other partners who joined us, who were also newcomers to the international big game hunting scene. A quick rifle lesson of point-and-click at X-marks-the-spot doesn’t impress upon someone the size, strength, and survivability of the rugged, ancient animals that deserve a hell of a lot of respect for thriving in such a dangerous and inhospitable land.

I wish I would have found a way to better engage our fellow safari crew in the preparation. Either going together to expos, trading emails on cool facts and threads, or just cracking a few beers and rolling through YouTube videos of guys doing exactly what we dreamed of doing may have helped their hunt also last far longer than the five days afield—and saved us some heartache later.

The problem with our safari began when we set our dates for the hunt. We had a multi-year window in which to pick our dates, but when my wife and I found out we would be moving out of the US for work this winter, we reached out in March of 2022 to see if they would have availability in JUNE of this same year. Credit where it is due, the owner seemingly bent over backwards to fit us into his schedule. We arrived in late June to a full safari camp, room made for us. Communication was pitiful in the final weeks leading up to meeting, but a lone Facebook message the morning of our flight to look for a PH from the outfitter at baggage claim let us know we were, in fact, on the books for the upcoming week.
A horribly delayed flight from ATL to JNB led us to overnight in Joburg before making the long drive to camp in the morning, missing half of our first of five hunting days through no one’s fault but Delta’s. I saw about eighty other fellas decked out in earth tones and boots on that flight, so some of you reading probably suffered along with us!

 

[gadwallop]

Upon arriving we sat down for a meeting with the head honcho of the outfitter. The animals we intended to hunt as paid add-ons were Bushbuck and Zebra, as well as Blue Wildebeest, Impala, Blesbok, and Warthog, which were the included animals. We were two couples, and though against our desire and request to remain together, we were given two PHs and told we would split up. I would be hunting bushbuck until I got it, as it was the most difficult animal on our list to hunt. I protested gently that our first and sole focus was to “have a good time together,” killing was secondary—but I was told under no uncertain terms we would be commencing a bushbuck hunt immediately, dammit, and that’s the way it is.

This was a little shocking – we thought we would be calling our own shots on our own safari. But, it's our first day, we’re a long way from home, we’re tired, let’s just go and meet our PHs and see what they have to say. John and Jack, we’ll call them. They bring out a rental .308 for us to “zero” by plinking a plate at a hundred yards.

An aside, we rented rifles at the camp. I have, train with, and am very comfortable on my .30-06 at home. It’s sweet. But I didn’t have a airline-quality case and did not want to worry about the perils of traveling internationally with a firearm. I do not regret renting. However! I specifically asked if we would be able to rent a .30-06 for the week. In hindsight, I was not given affirmation we would. It’s the caliber I know, which just gives me that warm fuzzy. In the future, I’ll bring my own rifle. But for a first trip, with short notice and many other unknowns, renting was a fine choice. Just like renting a car on a vacation, you weigh the pros and cons of familiarity versus practicality, and only you can make the right choice at the end of the day.

Anyway, me and the other hunter—our wives were not even asked if they would like to hunt or shoot at all—take a feel-good shot at the target to prove the business end goes that way, and then we’re loaded into a Toyota Hilux for an hour long drive to bushbuck land. Bushbuck hunting is done by walking slowly along a riverbank and hoping to see or startle one, then you shoot it. Odds are low, kind of like trying to see a trophy whitetail on your afternoon walk through the woods back home. One, you’ll see a lot of does and spikes before you see a big buck, and two, they’ll see you a lot better than you see them. But since the land is healthy and holds a lot here, eventually you’ll see one. At least, this is what they tell me.

 

[gadwallop]

Finally at the Happy Hunting Grounds, we dismount to go safari. John, our head PH of the two, remarks that we are too many people, and there is only one gun, so he will only be taking me and the tracker, and everyone else must remain at the car with Jack. This is again unexpected. We have come for an experience, a good time, together, not to silently split apart in a forest nine thousand miles from home. But we do as we’re told, and John, I, and the tracker Pete begin on our three-hour nature walk before sunset. We flush probably a dozen bushbuck ewes, and several young rams. Then, last light, gloriously, a large, beautiful, heavy-horned mature ram walks not twenty yards in front of us on the trail. I freeze. The tracker freezes. The bushbuck freezes. The PH points at a monkey in a tree above us. He says, “A monkey!” The bushbuck still freezes. The tracker shakes the PH’s shoulder. The PH continues to stare at the monkey. The bushbuck takes himself off the silver platter and saunters away. The PH never sees him. The tracker looks at me, begins laughing and shaking his head. John doesn’t say a word. These ten seconds exemplified the whole week to follow with John – apathy or incompetence, the end result was the same: no results.

The sun sets. We return to the truck at sunset, where my wife and our party have just sat, on the world’s most disappointing safari, awaiting our return. We make the long drive back to camp well after dark. We miss dinner.

Back to the camp, where we’re informed we will be again hunting bushbuck tomorrow, and will do so until we kill one. John the PH has told the bossman we just didn’t see any bushbuck, good ole CYOA. Can’t really blame him, honestly. The ladies, still designated non-hunters by the authorities, decide to sit out the next morning, fearing a repeat of this past evening, wisely.

 

[gadwallop]

The next morning, we return with a vengeance to the river. Both PHs, us two hunters, and a tracker. From 7 AM to 1 PM we walk slowly and silently, with five pairs of eyes scanning the brush, and we never see hide nor tail of a bushbuck. We, the paying clients, at this point make an executive decision (request) – may we please abandon the bushbuck hunt? We have three days left, and we want to at least SEE an animal in Africa. Fine, fine, fine, but there may not be any property to hunt for us in the afternoon, and the weather will be very poor, John tells us, setting expectations as low as he can.

We return to camp. The camp boss angry at us, the clients, for messing up his scheduling, we’re sent to do a traditional spot-and-stalk drive on a different concession for the afternoon. We get the ladies, well rested and ready to go, and mount up. We spend the evening driving the trails until well past sunset and see nothing but a sounder of young warthogs and a few impala ewes. Night falls again. Cue my incredulity at the poor weather when we get to the camp and there’s a traffic jam of other PHs waiting to drop off their animals at the skinning shed, and a party of four good ole boys from Arkansas toasting their fiftieth animal in just seven days. We are asked what we want to do the next day, since we quit on the bushbuck hunt. Just have a good time, preferably by seeing and even shooting an animal, since we’re here, we let them know. Following guarantees of wildebeest and Booner impala the following morning, we dive headfirst into our suitcase whiskey to numb the aggravation and set the alarm for 5:15.

 

[gadwallop]

The morning of day three, we split into two trucks. My wife and I are now with Jack, our other PH for the week, who heretofore was silent and in the background. We opened up conversation with him and our week and mood just changed completely. He is brand spanking new at this outfitter, it is his very first week, despite his nearly ten years of professional experience and a lifetime of hunting. His assignment this week is to stay silent and “learn” from John, though as soon as the PHs separated, the chasm in their charisma, enthusiasm, and general hunting ability was glaring. While John had hardly even spotted an animal, and walked trails with his head down, hands in pockets, Jack showed off his eagle eyes and commitment to the hunt immediately. In the morning, while John and our partners sat a blind at a watering hole, my wife and I and Jack went on half a dozen stalks for animals, though all unsuccessful—but not for lack of effort. We flip-flopped in the afternoon and took our turn at a watering hole.

By sunset, two warthogs—one very magnificent sow for my partner and one good boar for me—lay dead in the African winter sun. We’d cut meat! The ice had been broken!

We’re now 60% through our trip and the only animals we have on the stringer are the two warthogs from a blind, which hadn’t exactly scratched the itch of the “safari experience” we’d banked on. The frustration was beginning to grow among our party—particularly me, honestly—and noticeably with John, our head PH, whose paycheck does revolve on the success of his clients. Repeated promises of trophy impala to follow the next day, guaranteed.

 

[gadwallop]

Daybreak on day four. Not five minutes into the drive, and a small flock of blue wildebeest are down the end of a road, to the west, so we can approach with the sun at our back. We dismount and begin a stalk, the two hunters, the two PHs, and the one tracker. At about 130 yards, John determines there is a massive cow in the mix, but no shooter bull. They continued to graze and dig in the road, unaware or not caring of our presence. John sets up the sticks, as my hunting partner says he would be happy shooting the big cow. John sets up the sticks and says “shoot whenever you’re ready,” with no other guidance.

What I SHOULD have done is forced the point, aware of his inexperience and demanded we get closer for a shot. But I didn’t. And just as quick as that, my partner is taking his first shot at a true big game animal, at a non-negligible distance for one with limited experience, especially rushed and on sticks. Many of you may scoff at the idea of a struggling on such a chip shot, but spare a moment to think of the ease with which you now shoulder a shotgun at a flushing pheasant, or could split a hair with your baitcaster—these are talents which take true time to hone, and can on occasion be messed up by anyone. And, unfortunately, this one was. He takes a frontal shot, it’s off the mark, leaving a good blood trail but no vitals punctured, leading to a three-hour track. After about an hour the trail was lost completely but John and the tracker continued to beat the bush. We never saw her again.

While I searched another corner, though, I spooked a wounded young bull, obviously shot on a previous hunt, just to drive home the fact these are TOUGH creatures, and mistakes can and often happen to anyone. As poor as it was, it gives me hope and confidence that even a wounded wildebeest might live to see much more than just another day.

As the sunrise burned into late morning, Jack the PH decided to change course and help me out. He and I go back to hunt, while the other three men continue on their wild wildegoose chase.

 

[gadwallop]

It’s worth mentioning the entire time we stalked and tracked, the two ladies stayed at the truck, alone in the bush, and kept a smile on their face. We are men undeserving.

 

[gadwallop]

So with the only tracker working the wounded wildebeest trail with John, Jack was left to drive the car, making me the spotter in the back. I mount up, a lone man on a mission, and off we drive into parts unknown. Thankfully, and I can say these things because it’s anonymously on the internet, so it doesn’t matter if you believe me or not, I have pretty damn good game eyes and spotted as many or more of the animals than the PHs did over the week. It helped me feel like I was playing an active, important role in the hunt, too. Just a few minutes into our unusual arrangement, I spot a few more blue wildebeest. A quick signal to Jack, and we park and dismount, beginning a stalk to see if there’s a bull therein. The ladies stay behind again, the patient angels. The wildebeest are grazing as they amble slowly away from us, and with a faster walking pace we close the distance from about 300 to 100 yards in no time. One respectable bull is in the mix, along with a couple truly outstanding golden wildebeest bulls (next time!). Jack, for the first time this safari, sets up the sticks for me and when the bull turns broadside it’s bombs away. I had the decency to drop him on the spot, about ten yards from another game trail, and for the first time in my whole life I killed an animal that weighed more than me. Hootin and hollerin commences; it’s a real deal safari now!

I took my time to admire the old bull before Jack sets him up for pictures. It’s not often you get a wildebeest in your hands. I was surprised by how small it was – they stand so tall but they’re not nearly as wide bodied as I imagined. And the hair was more brittle than soft, and the horns shockingly smooth. The rest of our party serendipitously returned from their unsuccessful track job right about then, just in time for us to get a group picture. It doesn’t matter that I was the trigger puller – like I said, it was a two-year-long hunt, shared among us all, and it took a whole lot of sacrifice on everyone’s part to put down that bull blue wildebeest. I’ll cherish that photo we took and the memories of the whole party walking up on our first true African trophy with smiles for a lifetime.

 

[gadwallop]

Now that our bushbuck hunt had been a wash, I had some extra money in my pocket for a “plus one” surprise animal. I let my PH Jack (the competent one, whom I trusted) know that morning that I would be very happy paying for a waterbuck or even a nyala if the opportunity arose (ain’t got no space for a kudu). That aside, Jack remarked another PH had spent the past three days on this same property looking for nyala without seeing hide or tail, but bull waterbuck were plentiful. With this in mind, and a blue wildebeest underneath our feet in the back of the Hilux, we continue to hunt, with an attentive eye for something special, anything. After seeing a few more impala ewes, some white blesbok, and one ANGRY Cape Buffalo bull which made me pucker more than the T. rex in Jurassic Park ever did, the Hilux slams to a stop as the most magnificent nyala bull stands up from his nap just off the road in front of us. Both PHs say to get ready, but he’s off, bounding silently into the bush. We hop off the truck; the chase is on. We stalk him for the better part of an hour, spotting him just two more times. Each time we move to set up the sticks, he bounds away, nimble and silent as a cat. Eventually Jack turns to me, despondent, and says that since he’s flushed so many times, he’s likely gone forever. Nyala usually hunker down when being pursued, and since we’ve spooked him at least three times, he’s not in the mood today. We make our way back to the car to go back to the “spot” portion of spot and stalk. But not a quarter mile down the road, what do I see but ANOTHER bull nyala awaking from a nap, stretching in the noontime shade not fifty yards away.

“Get ready! Get ready! Shoot him if you can!” He looks at the truck and begins to turn away, hesitating just a moment too long. I lean over the other side of the Hilux, find his left shoulder in the 3x9, brace the stock against the gunwale of the trunk, and let it fly. I aim too high, not compensating for the bullet rise at so close a distance, and he collapses on the spot with a mighty roar. Really, a roar! Back legs first, then front legs; I instantly know it’s a neck shot. Cycle the bolt, get back on him, ready to see if he’s going to get back up. He’s kicking but I can’t see him for the brush. John and Jack jump off the truck and run to him. I won’t keep the gun trained on the bull as they’re running out, so I hop off too. Next comes the tracker, and the rest of the crew. What do the seven of us approach but a gargantuan nyala, finding enough adrenaline to pull himself up and use his horns for exactly what they’re designed to do. He isn’t off the ground yet but he’s picking himself up. This animal is moving too fast, and we’ve come too close for me to safely and accurately put a bullet in his powerplant. Mind you, this happened within fifty yards of the truck, with maybe five seconds between spotting and shooting.

 

[gadwallop]

What happened next I hope to never do again, but desperately wish we had caught on film. Jack grabs him by the horns and forces down his head to the dirt. The tracker grabs his front legs and pulls them towards the head. John grabs the barrel of the .308 and puts the muzzle to his fur and tells me to shoot. I shoot. It’s instantly and completely dead. If it wasn’t exactly in the heart, then the shock of a literally point-blank .308 jellied enough internally to cease all functions of life.

I had the presence of mind to ask the ladies to look away before we approached him, knowing the old bull was still alive. I’m thankful I did, as a third-person view of the events must’ve been as terrifying as it was jaw-dropping. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined putting the barrel to the skin of a 300-lb animal as two other men wrangled him down. Like hearing the story of someone who survived because they did NOT wear a seatbelt, likely never again will a scenario play out where that was the absolute safest thing to do. I hope it doesn’t. I’ll train to shoot better. I don’t recommend trying that at home.

We set up the bull for photos, but first I need a minute to admire what was admittedly the one animal I dreamed the most about taking in Africa. I thought nyala would be too difficult to find, and this outfitter wasn’t renowned for great trophy nyala, either. But the absolutely gorgeous mane, the ivory tipped horns, the polka dots on the cheeks and rump, what an animal! I didn’t even so far as mention it to my wife, who, as we said, had already heard enough about the damned bushbuck. This nyala was not as big as the one we had seen just minutes earlier, but he’s got long ivory tips and a substantial amount of wear and tear on his horns, including one that’s asymmetric. If I never even see a nyala again, this one will remain to me as an outstanding specimen of an outstanding species.

 

[gadwallop]

Now, I had long feared the idea of seeing a trophy animal, a survivor for a decade, minding its own business, and killing it within seconds of your encounter. This is exactly what I had just done. But in my first true year of big game hunting in America, and in my two years of planning the safari, I came to sleep comfortably believing it’s so much more than that. That nyala may have, in one’s opinion, met an undignified end, but I spent years of my life planning, studying, saving, practicing, working, and more for even a passing chance at encountering him. The hunt was so much more than a poor shot from the back of a pickup truck, and shared between more creatures than just me and him. It even includes you now. And after such abject failure on the bushbuck hunt, to class up to a wonderful nyala makes the whole thing worth it. I hope his pedestal mount is passed down for generations or more, and maybe even inspires someone else in my family to go figure this whole thing out for themselves.

 

[gadwallop]

Throw the nyala in the trunk with the wildebeest, who’s beginning to gurgle and expand at this point, and we go back to drop them off. A quick loose meat sandwich of some sort of bushmeat, and we load back up.
We hunt until sunset, never again setting up the sticks on another animal, but John spooks a zebra at spitting range once when he coughs on a cigarette. A difficult but successful morning gives way to an aggravating afternoon.

 

[gadwallop]

Day five, our last day. We have hunted from before to after dark, every day we’ve been at camp. We still have on our list blesbok, two impala, and a Zebra. It’s quite apparent to all of us we won’t come remotely close to getting all the animals we planned on and came for. We are dropped off at two different watering hole blinds, under repeated promises from John we are guaranteed big impala rams. Without a shadow of a doubt. It’s almost annoying how much he assures us of trophy male impala.

Spoiler: I, to this moment, have still yet to see an impala with a penis.

7 AM to noon at a blind, my wife and I, with the competent and personable Jack, don’t see a single animal other than the ubiquitous guinea fowl clowning around. At the other blind two steenbok show up and loiter, unaware how close they were to being knocked into another dimension courtesy of the Remington Arms Company. We’re picked up at noon to go to a different blind located on a different property. The pressure is certainly now on. We don’t know if the camp boss is threatening to kill John’s family or something, but if after an entire week of hosting four clients, the only payday the camp has earned off of us is the chump change from one nyala, someone’s having their hands cut off. So I’m in the back of the Hilux hanging on for dear life as John does no less than 40 down one of the game trails, with instructions to smack on the cab if I see anything. I guess in his rationale, if he hits an animal he can just shoot it on the ground and maybe still charge us for it. So just around 12:30 we set up at another watering hole. If I told you we spooked impala arriving at the hole, you wouldn’t believe me, but sho nuff, off scatter some little copper antelope to the four winds as we arrive.

We sit, we hunt, we eat more loose meat sandwiches, and at three o’clock, after only two hours sitting here, up rumbles the pick-up truck, scattering the waterbuck cow who was just enjoying her quiet Friday afternoon at the water’s edge. John has picked us up again, saying it’s only a fifteen minute drive to another property; we are done sitting at the blinds and it’s time to go spotting again.

We are aghast at this change of plans, without input from any of us, but now he’s got a rumbling pickup truck at the watering hole, only an hour and a half from sunset. Surely he’s busted our chances here. Sure, whatever, let’s get in the car, at least we shot something yesterday, because there’s no way in hell this last drive ends successfully.

 

[gadwallop]

The fifteen-minute drive becomes an hour, surprise, and its after four o’clock before we’re genuinely hunting again. Sunset is around five, leaving us no more than an hour to hunt, plus a nighttime track, if we’re lucky, before we have to pack to leave. It’s getting dire. We’re forty minutes in, burning holes in the bush with how hard I’m searching, and in a hushed exclaim I let out a “Zebra zebra zebra!” The Hilux rolls to a stop about a hundred yards down. Jack and I get off the truck and it’s two-minute drill time.

We’ve spotted two zebra grazing around a hundred yards from the road, but they’re in head-high shrubs and grass. We’ve got the sun to our back, and they haven’t seen us, So we drop to a high crawl and close the distance. We crawl probably forty yards before he rolls back on his butt and mentions for me to put the gun on his shoulder, using him as the rest, as the zebra walk into a shooting lane. As I do, we’re whispering to each other on which zebra to take. Before there’s time to settle, they walk behind another bush. We crawl again.

This time in an unexpected clearing a surprise third zebra is staring at us. We’re still as a statue, and she throws her head like an aggravated horse, huffs, and turns around. Not running, but at a steady trot, the zebras begin to turn away and disappear in the grass. They’re disquieted, but haven’t quite flared.

Jack stands up, and using the geometry of their movement, takes about ten steps backwards and to his right and whips open the sticks before we’ve even laid eyes again on the animals. I’m up on the sticks in a heartbeat. Asses to us, out walk the three zebras in a perfect shooting lane at seventy yards. He whispers, “Take any that gives you the shot,” and then whistles to stop them. One turns broadside as the others keep walking. Fatal mistake. “That one,” he says.

No hesitation, squeeze bang thud. It folds like a greenhead over the decoys. It was so immediate the other two zebras second-guess if anything was amiss, as their buddy stayed behind and hadn’t run. We run up to the zebra, afraid it may have been another neck shot warranting a follow-up, but no, directly into the heart, maybe two inches above the corporal’s chevrons. Jack remarked it was the first through-and-through shot on a zebra he'd ever seen.

 

[gadwallop]

The whole event happened within sight of the truck. Once I hooped and hollered again, the rest of the group came to celebrate. And in the dying light of our final sunset over the savannah, and with no more pressure or time left to hunt, we were able to admire the absolutely astonishing beauty of a zebra, that animal most exemplary of the mighty plains and bushveld of Africa and reflect on five hard days in the field and all the time and effort it took to get us there. Dreams of an heirloom rug became reality as we got our hands on an animal so much larger and so much harder to hunt than I ever imagined. No one was more relieved at our success than John, who seemed to have the weight of the world fall off his shoulders when the mare hit the dirt. Jack, for his part, was genuinely happy to successfully hunt one more animal with us after a furious and quick stalk. A happy ride back to the camp for one last evening.

 

[gadwallop]

We pack, we prepped to leave, we finished our suitcase whiskey, and we discussed final payment with the PHs over the animals shot—and the wildebeest wounded. It’s worth noting that despite my frustration and disappointment with the PH John, he kept us safe, was politely professional, and never gave us concerns about his intentions or character while we were his clients. No drinking, no poor ethics, etc. Simply, he was a bad hunter, but a good man. We held no ill-will towards him, and never intended to give him any less than a fair tip. But the formal paperwork was the last thing on the docket.

We were on the hook financially for the wounded wildebeest. This is reasonable. The logic is sound. However! Never had we signed a disclaimer. Never had we signed ANYTHING to contractually obligate us to pay a penny, for anything. As an American, to be allowed to even look at a gun without signing a hold harmless agreement is unheard of. The lack of paperwork and contracts and such concerned us, even before this point. All we had in our possession concerning money was an email with a discounted pricelist for package-buyers. Nowhere on the outfitter’s website, or in our interactions with him had the rule of “you bleed it, you buy it” been stated.

Yes, I am a hunter, I say to you. But also, this was my first time ever paying for an animal. I hold it is not intuitive this rule is always the case. So my partner and I, before attesting our final signature to the invoice, asked for clarity on the wildebeest. Since we had three animals included in our package we never shot, let alone even had a chance to shoot, could we call it a wash? They went to ask the owner for us. What was said to him by John I will never know. What I do know, is not a minute later the owner is storming out to us, gets into our faces, and for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, screams at us at the top of his lungs about out refusal to pay for wounded animals and that we are neither hunters nor sportsmen. “You will pay for the animal, I rest my case!” is how he ends his scream. So we pay for the wildebeest, and everything else, and we’re given a ride by a different PH back to Johannesburg to conclude our trip.

 

[gadwallop]

It’s important to remind you here I did not name the outfitter, nor will I. I’ll speak my reasoning.
- This is my side of the story, surely, he would see it another way.
- This man went out of his way to fit us in on short notice, when he had a full schedule prepared.
- We did not stop our PHs and tell them the limits and comfort of our ability, which we should have.
- I do not know what the PH said to him, or how “We want clarity on this rule” became “We refuse to pay for an animal.” Perhaps they (rightfully) fear their boss and wanted to blame the poor hunting more on our performance than theirs. If that’s the case, I don’t fault them for self-preservation.
- Ultimately, we pulled the trigger. Blame can only lie at this singular point.

 

[gadwallop]

However, something as simple as, “You guys have a question? Sorry, it’s a well-established rule, I’m sorry you didn’t know, but if it’s wounded, I have to take it off my books,” would have sufficed. To scream at paying clients, in front of your other clients? Unconscionable.

And we were men without options. Fully reliant on him for our safety and future, four hours from greater civilization in Johannesburg, we had no bargaining power. We were strangers in a strange land. Despite being paying customers, we were guests, one more word away from wearing out our welcome.

I choose not to give this company a positive review. File this as one of the two- or three-star reviews that gets largely. I had memories to last a lifetime. I saw things I never dreamed I would. I spent time with my wife staring at the Southern Cross and walking in fresh leopard tracks. I shot a zebra and shared it with my loved ones. I would recommend "Jack" our PH to anyone, without hesitation, and I made friends from close to home all the way around the world.

Ultimately, this safari was not about the outfitter. It wasn’t about the PHs, nor the animals, nor even me. It was about the experience, and, boy, did we get one. You can try all you like to curate a trip to be exactly what you want it to be, but there will always be some unknowns. I hope hearing honesty about a hunting trip that wasn’t all a dream can help someone manage their expectations, or even find comfort in knowing they aren’t alone in thinking it wasn’t all that great. The highs come with the lows, life’s just like that, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Would I do this again? Yes. But I’d try to learn from some of my lessons and mistakes herein. Would I do an African hunt over, say, Alaska or New Zealand, or somewhere else exotic? Who’s to say. There’s a lot of world still left to see. But for now, I’ve had enough fun to tide me over for several years while my wallet recuperates.

At least until duck season.