PhotoCollector73
AH veteran
Excerpt from 'Great African Trophies,' by Dianna Rupp:
We were up at 3:30, and my hunting partner, David, stated that at breakfast that today was the day. I wanted to believe him as my feet were getting past the tender stage and more to the well-done stage. When Fred tells you to bring two pairs of hunting boots, he is basing his advice on experience. Believe me, you want to have the option of a second pair. I like to walk and have never had sore feet like I had in C.A.R. David echoed this fact numerous times as well.
We cut tracks at 6:00 that morning and were off. We caught up to the herd by 8:00, but the wind and terrain conspired us 300 to 400 yards apart, catching only tails swishing and ears twitching through the thick foliage. This cat-and-mouse game went on until 3:30 in the afternoon. Several times we got close, 50 to 100 yards, only to have them catch our scent and move off very quickly on those long legs.
We kept looking for a big bull to step our and for a chance to take a shot. Finally François whispered, "I know where we are; they will move into a clearing 300 to 400 yards ahead. We must make a circle and get ahead of them. We must run." I did not have any run left in me. I could walk, but running was out of the question. The heat and many miles we had covered had taken its toll. I was officially tired. Somehow I made it to the edge of the clearing. We stood there for several minutes, and then the herd started coming across at the edge of the clearing, approximately 150 to 200 yards straight from us.
François whispered, "Bob, a bull is going to step into the clearing any second. Be ready." When he said, "*Maintenant*" (now), I got the sight picture and pulled the trigger. I lost sight of the bull on the shot... only to see him get up and turn back in the direction he had come. François said, "He will be just behind the clump of bush; he was hit hard."
We cut through the small area of bush... and found nothing. My spirits started sinking. I was tired, sore, and thirsty, and the only thing I could think of was the stories my friend Ian Gloss, a PH from Zimbabwe, had told me about following wounded eland. They all involved a lot of walking. François quickly brought me back with his sudden, "There he is. Shoot!"
I took an offhand shot and down the bull went. We walked up slowly, with François cautioning me to stay back twenty yards until he confirmed he was dead. He then walked back to me and said, "Bob, it is your turn to go and see your beautiful eland."
As I write this, I get goosebumps thinking about that walk and the first sight and touch of such a magnificent animal. What happened next I was not prepared for: The tears started to flow. Relieved that the hunt was over, and sorry that it was over, I knelt there for several minutes with the tears flowing before looking back at the hunting team: François, Charlemagne, Alphonse, and Eric.
I was embarrassed by my tears. I walked back and thanked each of them for their hard work and effort. They were tired as well. Eric, the driver, started the long walk to find our vehicle to start the recovery.
François insisted I sit down and drink as much water as possible; he knew I was done. After taking pictures, we started skinning and caping. It was 5:00 in the afternoon by then, and we had a lot of work to do and a long drive ahead of us. I wad numb, and it was only after the second celebratory beer that I looked over at François and saw be was staring at the eland. I asked what was wrong, and he replied, "We need to measure this thing."
François asked me to help hold the tape, and upon reaching the tip with the tape he looked at me, then back to the tape, and said, "It's 54 inches." The backslapping started, and there were handshakes all around. Slowly the fatigue dissipated. A few minutes later, François was staring at the eland again and came the tape again, and we measured the left horn. "Over 56 inches!" he said.
Another round of handshakes. Finally the meat, hide, and horns were loaded, and we carefully padded the horns from damage after François relayed a story of a PH who haf come back into camp with an eland that had several inches of horn removed from dragging the trophy on the ground on the way back into camp.
The boys stopped the truck before crossing the Kocho River. They proceeded to decorate the truck with leaves and fonds. As the truck started across the river, François asked me to fire a shot in the air away from camp and the boys began to chant, "*Gbazo gbo kui awe*" (the eland is dead)
The camp staff came out beating drums and singing, "*Gbazo gbo kui we gwe ti Kocho*" (the eland is dead; come celebrate the eland and the hunter in Kocho).
Slowly, with the horn honking, we made our way into camp, to be met by David and his PH and PH Christophe Morio who was there with his clients. There was a lot of handshakes and backslapping in the headlights and then Christophe walked over and uttered an unprintable phrase - he was very excited. I was tired, I just wanted a shower and a chance to sit down, but Christophe kept saying, "This is big." Little did I know.
We were up at 3:30, and my hunting partner, David, stated that at breakfast that today was the day. I wanted to believe him as my feet were getting past the tender stage and more to the well-done stage. When Fred tells you to bring two pairs of hunting boots, he is basing his advice on experience. Believe me, you want to have the option of a second pair. I like to walk and have never had sore feet like I had in C.A.R. David echoed this fact numerous times as well.
We cut tracks at 6:00 that morning and were off. We caught up to the herd by 8:00, but the wind and terrain conspired us 300 to 400 yards apart, catching only tails swishing and ears twitching through the thick foliage. This cat-and-mouse game went on until 3:30 in the afternoon. Several times we got close, 50 to 100 yards, only to have them catch our scent and move off very quickly on those long legs.
We kept looking for a big bull to step our and for a chance to take a shot. Finally François whispered, "I know where we are; they will move into a clearing 300 to 400 yards ahead. We must make a circle and get ahead of them. We must run." I did not have any run left in me. I could walk, but running was out of the question. The heat and many miles we had covered had taken its toll. I was officially tired. Somehow I made it to the edge of the clearing. We stood there for several minutes, and then the herd started coming across at the edge of the clearing, approximately 150 to 200 yards straight from us.
François whispered, "Bob, a bull is going to step into the clearing any second. Be ready." When he said, "*Maintenant*" (now), I got the sight picture and pulled the trigger. I lost sight of the bull on the shot... only to see him get up and turn back in the direction he had come. François said, "He will be just behind the clump of bush; he was hit hard."
We cut through the small area of bush... and found nothing. My spirits started sinking. I was tired, sore, and thirsty, and the only thing I could think of was the stories my friend Ian Gloss, a PH from Zimbabwe, had told me about following wounded eland. They all involved a lot of walking. François quickly brought me back with his sudden, "There he is. Shoot!"
I took an offhand shot and down the bull went. We walked up slowly, with François cautioning me to stay back twenty yards until he confirmed he was dead. He then walked back to me and said, "Bob, it is your turn to go and see your beautiful eland."
As I write this, I get goosebumps thinking about that walk and the first sight and touch of such a magnificent animal. What happened next I was not prepared for: The tears started to flow. Relieved that the hunt was over, and sorry that it was over, I knelt there for several minutes with the tears flowing before looking back at the hunting team: François, Charlemagne, Alphonse, and Eric.
I was embarrassed by my tears. I walked back and thanked each of them for their hard work and effort. They were tired as well. Eric, the driver, started the long walk to find our vehicle to start the recovery.
François insisted I sit down and drink as much water as possible; he knew I was done. After taking pictures, we started skinning and caping. It was 5:00 in the afternoon by then, and we had a lot of work to do and a long drive ahead of us. I wad numb, and it was only after the second celebratory beer that I looked over at François and saw be was staring at the eland. I asked what was wrong, and he replied, "We need to measure this thing."
François asked me to help hold the tape, and upon reaching the tip with the tape he looked at me, then back to the tape, and said, "It's 54 inches." The backslapping started, and there were handshakes all around. Slowly the fatigue dissipated. A few minutes later, François was staring at the eland again and came the tape again, and we measured the left horn. "Over 56 inches!" he said.
Another round of handshakes. Finally the meat, hide, and horns were loaded, and we carefully padded the horns from damage after François relayed a story of a PH who haf come back into camp with an eland that had several inches of horn removed from dragging the trophy on the ground on the way back into camp.
The boys stopped the truck before crossing the Kocho River. They proceeded to decorate the truck with leaves and fonds. As the truck started across the river, François asked me to fire a shot in the air away from camp and the boys began to chant, "*Gbazo gbo kui awe*" (the eland is dead)
The camp staff came out beating drums and singing, "*Gbazo gbo kui we gwe ti Kocho*" (the eland is dead; come celebrate the eland and the hunter in Kocho).
Slowly, with the horn honking, we made our way into camp, to be met by David and his PH and PH Christophe Morio who was there with his clients. There was a lot of handshakes and backslapping in the headlights and then Christophe walked over and uttered an unprintable phrase - he was very excited. I was tired, I just wanted a shower and a chance to sit down, but Christophe kept saying, "This is big." Little did I know.
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