I wounded a zebra on my first African trip, Namibia 2012. But it’s a pretty good story…
THE ZEBRA
The drive from Bernadette in Otjiwarongo to George’s farm in the mountains of the Khomas Hochland can take anywhere from 3 to 5 hours depending on the state of the roads. The highway is paved for about 20 miles outside of Windhoek, then it is unpaved roads the rest of the way. This can be a real problem during or just after the rainy season, but we found the roads to be in good repair and made good time. The elevation at Windhoek is about 5600 ft, and we gained another 1000 ft by the time we got to George’s farm.
George, his wife Rika and his kids Hans and Melanie met us with a pack of enthusiastic dogs, and we sat down to a traditional German dinner: more of the excellent Tafel beer, a dense, dark homemade bread full of grains with a thick crust, and plates of cold meats, sausages, cheeses and eggs. The whole family spoke excellent English; friendly, warm people. We were early to bed as we needed to be up and ready before sunrise.
Breakfast at 0600 was coffee and the dinner leftovers. We were in the truck on our way up the mountain at 0630. I rode in the pickup bed with the tracker, and, despite fleece jacket, gloves and hat, I was cold! The tracker wore a thin cotton jacket and seemed unconcerned with the cold. We slowly bumped our way up the mountain as the eastern horizon gradually brightened. The plan was to catch the zebras as they climbed the mountain at first light. The zebras spend the night in the valleys, drinking water, then climb the mountain and spend the days among the trees grazing. We left the truck, I loaded the .300 WM with 180 grain Federal softpoints, and we started walking. George must be around 60, very thin and fit. He set a rapid pace along game trails studded with rocks and lined with thorn bushes. After about 15 minutes of up and down, he stopped suddenly, glassing the next hillside and said “Zebras! Do you see them?” I could barely see the trees over there. Finally, as he was becoming exasperated, I saw them: Small gray figures moving in the dim light. They had to be well over 400 yards away. He plopped down shooting sticks, and I lined up on them, but there was no way I could take that shot; even at 12X, in that poor light, with all that brush around, I couldn’t get a clear target. You would think a zebra would stand out clearly, but in the bush you can barely see them. So it was a quick hike back to the truck, and a slow ride to the next mountain, glassing continuously. I could see groups of oryx and kudu on the slopes as the sun finally came up. We spotted zebras moving on a ridgeline, so we dumped the truck and started climbing. This was a steep vertical game trail with loose rocks and thick thorn trees both lining the trail and hanging overhead. It was necessary not just to climb quickly, but to be continuously ducking and leaning to try to avoid the thorns, which ripped at my clothes and the rifle. As we cleared the trees, George stopped and pointed. I peeked over a rock and caught just a glimpse of a few zebras disappearing over the ridge. I couldn’t believe how close they were, maybe 100 yards. We continued to climb quickly, crested the ridge, and descended back into the bush on the far side. I was now sweating heavily, removed my hat and gloves and unzipped my fleece jacket. After another 10 minutes of very fast tracking, we stopped and glassed. George motioned me up on a series of flat, stepped boulders, and I saw them, 4 zebras in a small clearing directly in front of me. George whispered, “216 yards”, and I settled into a nice, supported prone position. I could see a mare and a small one, as well as two stallions, but the angles were all wrong. As the group quartered away, a fifth appeared, but I watched them melt away into the bush.
Off the rocks and into a fast trot, we climbed hard to get another look at this group. I had the rifle ready as I stumbled over rocks, trying to stay balanced and in my assigned position behind George. After a few minutes, he stopped suddenly and pointed downslope. I saw them deep in the trees maybe 75 yards below us. I twisted the power ring on the scope to about midrange, got the rifle on the shooting sticks and tried to slow my breathing. Jimmy was in my ear: “The big one is in the rear, wait for him”. I popped the safety off, and Jimmy again: “Don’t shoot yet, this is the baby”. I could see the little one, but all the animals were partially obstructed. I could feel the wind in my face; this is why they had not alerted. Suddenly the stallion appeared in the opening through the trees. I was trying to find the triangle, George hissed in my ear, “Shoot him!” and I broke the shot a fraction of a second too soon. I thought I was low, and they bolted at the shot and he was gone.
Rifle on safe, and we all looked at each other. “I don’t know”, I said. Jimmy said, “You hit him”. We moved down the slope, and the tracker pointed out the blood trail, and we were off. I was cursing myself for not waiting that extra half-second and praying we didn’t lose this animal. The blood trail was evident even to me, even though it somewhat sparse. I was sweating fiercely now as the sun was high, but could not stop to take off my jacket. Jimmy split off from the rest of us and climbed the slope, moving with us from higher up. After a while, we lost the track. The tracker and George were scanning the ground; George moved ahead, I started downslope and the tracker climbed. He relocated the trail, and we started climbing again. I thought I saw the zebra; turned out to be a log. I was really unhappy at this point, but at least we had the trail. Then Jimmy shouted; he had spotted the zebra well below us, crossing the road. We ran downhill, made the road and started scanning. The zebra popped out into a clear area and I thought, “Damn, that’s got to be 400 yards”. He was out there, seriously downhill from us and moving away quickly considering he had an obviously broken left front leg. I cranked the scope all the way up, got on the shooting sticks, got the sling tangled in the sticks, cursed a lot, got settled, safety off, while George screamed, “Shoot him in the ass!” I ignored him, put the 400 yard aiming dot just behind the zebra’s shoulder and pressed the trigger. When I came down from the recoil, he was gone. Jimmy asked me, “Was it a good shot?” and George said that he heard the bullet hit the zebra, which I immediately thought was hard to believe, but I wanted to believe it anyway. George had lasered the zebra at 396 yards; I figured that with the elevation change and the fact that the target was moving away, that it would have to have been the shot of my life.
I stripped off the jacket, gulped some water. The zebra had entered a ravine and had not emerged, so Jimmy got a reference point on the far slope and we headed down into the valley. After a total of about an hour covering about 2 miles, we found him dead. The first shot hit the front leg below the bottom of the heart; the second shot hit him square in the lungs. First thing I felt was relief, huge relief that we got him. Second thing I thought was that that was the shot of my life. Third thing I thought was that zebras are really tough.
