Buffalo Charge 2017
In the Valley of the Shadow of Death
Foreword
On various safaris in Africa over the years, I have had the opportunity to participate in a number of control hunts for problem animals. These Problem Animal Control (PAC) hunts, normally involving dangerous game, offer you the opportunity to help the local inhabitants protect their homes, livelihoods and even their lives, and they also offer you the opportunity to test your hunting skills in life-and death situations.
Buffalo Charge 2017, In the Valley of the Shadow of Death, is the account of one such PAC Cape buffalo hunt that I took part in along the border of the Gonarezhou National Park in southeast Zimbabwe.
I was hunting with SSG Safaris. Joining me on the safari were Mike and Kenneth Floyd. Our professional hunters were Nixon Dzangai, his son Saimon, and etc. Chaulke
It was March 2017, just as the rains had stopped. The riverbeds were still flooded, and our access to SSG’s safari concession areas was greatly limited by the road conditions and the overgrowth. Mike and I had hunted in Zimbabwe in similar conditions in 2008, so we thought we knew what to expect. Once in the field however, we found the conditions much more difficult than we had expected. The recent rains had left the lowlands in a treacherous state. The low-hanging foliage and ten-foot-tall grass kept us on edge whenever we left the safety of the safari vehicles.
Our first opportunity at a PAC buffalo took place as this story started. Two local inhabitants of the Crooks’ Corner area of Zimbabwe had been killed by a problem buffalo. Mike and I had the opportunity to track that killer into its lair. However, the odds were just too heavy in the buffalo’s favor. Luckily, it made tracks back into Mozambique without inflicting any more deaths.
Meanwhile, Kenneth and Saimon had been hunting in the south, and had collected a 44-inch trophy buffalo. Mike and I joined up with them, and we moved north in the hope of finding better hunting conditions for buffalo, hippo and perhaps a PAC elephant. That’s when our second opportunity to hunt a PAC buffalo occurred, the events of which are detailed in this story.
It all started with a phone call while we were having lunch. A buffalo attack had occurred. We happily enlisted to try to help sort out the buffalo before it could exact any more damage. And so our story begins.
Here He Comes!
Midway through the fifth day of our hunt, Kenneth and I had decided to decompress. We’d stalked a killer buffalo through the valley of the shadow of death and into the Madzanda Swamp on the third day, and Kenneth had taken a 44-inch buffalo on the fourth. This had all been a lot to take in, so we decided that it was time to see more of the 500,000-acre SSG concession. With this in mind, we pulled out after lunch and headed north to hunt the upper reaches of Ghonarezhou in the Masvingo Province. We hoped that the buffalo and elephant traffic would be better than it had been in Crook’s Corner. We also hoped that Mike would have better luck there, if for no other reason than it was easier to see through the mopani brush than through the six-foot-tall grass in the Limpopo flood plain. I had a hyena on fresh bait and hated leaving, but we still needed another buffalo, and Saimon thought the move would get us one, plus a hippo.
We spent the afternoon and evening retracing our path back to the El Shaddai Lodge in Chiredzi. Kenneth has a great sense of humor, and he kept us entertained. This was when he first began working the number “44” (referencing his 44-inch buffalo trophy) into our conversations whenever possible. For example, he said that he needed to stop for a rest break in about 44 seconds. Then he wanted to know if we had another 44 beers in the cooler. We laughed each time he worked the number in, and it’s one of my best memories of the safari.
We rolled in at the lodge with enough time for a late dinner in the dining room, followed by yet another attempt to burn Cuba’s fields, one leaf at a time, on the veranda. From this point on our focus would be on trophy buffalo and hippo. The plan was to find another trophy buffalo, then move on to hippo. Depending on if and where we found hippo would determine the shooter. But God had other plans, we just didn’t know them yet.
Kenneth and Saimon with “44” near Crook’s Corner, Zimbabwe
Photo courtesy of Kenneth Floyd
Early the next morning we departed from the El Shaddai Lodge at 3:30 am, after a brief four-hour nap. Our first stop was to fuel up at the local Lyonnais Service Station. Then we headed to the outskirts of Chiredzi to pick up Chaulke before heading in the direction of Triangle. On the outskirts of Chiredzi, a smiling Saimon pointed out Farm No. 6, named Gonakudzingwa.. It is the estate where he hunted while growing up. Back then it was flush with all kinds of wild animals, but now it is high-fenced and protected; two adjectives that country boys hate the most. Kenneth and I mumbled that much of America has gone the same way, and that some people call it progress. Until recently, SSG still hunted there with clients. It was referred to as “lucky”, because any time they needed a leopard, they knew they could get one there.
After another hour we were in Triangle, passing the headquarters of Triangle Mills, a vast American owned sugarcane mill. It is Zimbabwe’s largest, with an annual output of 300,000 tons. Sixty-five percent of the output is consumed domestically, with the rest being exported worldwide. Then for the next hour or so we took a sequence of paved roads, maintained dirt roads and finally dirt paths on our way to SSG’s concession. As the roads rendered down we crossed the Tokwe and Runde Rivers, on our way southwest towards the eastern bank of the Mkwasine River. The roads and paths from Triangle to the Mkwasine River are lined with miles and miles of sugarcane. It had been an exceptionally rainy summer, and the sugarcane was young and healthy, showcasing several vibrant shades of green, a green like we only see in Texas during the spring.
Sometime around 7:00 am we entered the concession, and the regimented lines of flagpole-straight sugarcane vanished. The entrance was marked by a cinder-block outpost. A fire-stained aluminum pot was smoldering above a fire. Two women were already out tending their few rows of crops. They gave us a big smile as we came to a stop. Saimon and Chaulke checked in with them to determine if everything was okay, and to find out if they had heard of, or seen any buffalo recently. They waved and pointed in the direction of a two-track path. We waved back and then made a ninety-degree turn into the concession.
Once in the concession, untamed Zimbabwe unfurled itself in front of us. The lines of sugarcane were now replaced with the thickest jungle tangle one could imagine. Our range of view was just about even with the top of the grass. Beyond the grass were large trees with vines streaming down to the ground. If you could have seen beyond the grass, the jungle curtain closed off any further vision at less than twenty yards. As the grass and vines allowed, we could follow the Mkwasine by tracing the tops of the larger trees that lined its banks. We were in a jungle fishbowl. It was quickly apparent that unless an animal was standing right in our path, there was little hope of seeing anything. The path hadn’t been travelled since the rains had begun months before. I’m sure that during the normal hunting months when this growth is dead and on the ground, you would see waterbuck, bushbuck, zebra, warthog, elephant, buffalo and giraffe. Given the conditions, our only hope was for buffalo and elephant, as nothing else had a backbone tall enough to be seen, excepting the giraffe, of course.
Just as we were getting our dobbers in the dirt, no more than a quarter mile into the concession, the grass across the overgrown trail became matted and showed the bent patterns of herd travel. Saimon stopped and we all waded into the grass to have a look. Even Kenneth and I could easily determine that a large herd of buffalo and a few elephant had crossed very recently. Additionally, fresh strings of dung allowed Saimon and Chaulke to confirm that the spoor was fresh. That was great, but even so, would we be able to wade through the tall grass for a stalk? It would be the very definition of dangerous.
We loaded up and watched the crisscrossing spoor for the next mile. After it played out we continued our loop, hoping that the grass would either thin out or lie down. We eventually turned away from the river. The riverine grass thinned, as the mopani and the fever trees, otherwise known as yellow-backed acacia, began to dominate the landscape. It was late in the morning, and the forest floor was open to the extent that we could see maybe fifty yards. Eventually we came to a small waterhole and stopped and spent about thirty minutes scouting the area. It produced a few zebra and bushpig tracks, but no buffalo sign. We loaded up and spent another hour in the concession before hightailing it back to Chiredzi.
After stopping for snacks and drinks at the local grocery, we arrived back at El Shaddai to find lunch ready and waiting. Our conversation zeroed in on the need to find Mike a buffalo, since Kenneth had his “44” in the salt, and we decided that the area we were in might be the best place for him to get into a mess of them. We decided to send a message down to Malipati for him to come up here if he was not on fresh tracks in the highlands.
During lunch Kenneth didn’t miss a chance to work “44” into the conversation. At one point, he needed the salt and pepper, and asked if I didn’t mind passing them, since they were more than 44 inches away. He worked “44” in so many unexpected ways that we couldn’t stop laughing.
As we were finishing Saimon received a call and left the table to discuss whatever local issue was at play. We assumed it might have been a local farmer or game scout calling in to tip him off about where he might find buffalo. He returned with a serious face, and with a changed attitude. The call had been from the regional Ghonarezhou Park Headquarters near Chiredzi. An attack had just been reported from one of their outposts, involving some brothers named John and Paul Chauke, game scouts for an estate that borders the park. The park officer explained that they had been on an anti-poaching patrol on their western border not far from where we had been hunting. While on patrol at about 10:00 am they were ambushed by a large Cape buffalo. The attack had been so sudden that John had not been able to get off a shot to defend himself. Luckily, the rogue buffalo broke off the attack when John stopped moving. Paul, who was not armed, ran but immediately returned to check on John once the buffalo left. He found him in the creekbed, groaning but alive. He made him as comfortable as possible, and then ran back to their outpost for their one motorcycle. John was able to get on the motorcycle and ride several hours to the Mkwasine Estate Clinic, so his injuries were not thought to be life-threatening.
After telling the story, the park ranger solicited Saimon’s help, and he then solicited ours. It sounded like an opportunity we could not pass up or refuse. We could potentially provide a service, while also collecting our second trophy buffalo. As our heads began to bob with affirmation, Saimon wanted to make sure that we understood that this buffalo encounter would be different. There was no question that he would charge us, and we had to be willing to face that charge. He said that in the thick bush, it would be a very dangerous situation, and we must be ready and prepared. If we agreed, we needed to gather our gear and get there as fast as possible.
Because this was a hunt for a problem buffalo, Saimon had to prepare himself, and unfortunately he had left his ammo belt at Malipati, and had just three .404 Jeffery cartridges with him. This situation was too dangerous for such an ammunition limitation. He explained what had happened and asked if he could borrow my bolt-action Ruger RSM .375 H & H. Naturally, I was glad for it to see some action, so I quickly got it and a supply of ammo from my room.
On the veranda, Saimon shouldered the rifle with a seriousness that we had yet to see in him. The rifle was no longer a sporting rifle, but a survival tool. His, full-fun, all-the-time, demeanor changed as he carefully inspected every aspect of the rifle. He had shot his father’s RSM for many years, but he wanted to make sure that this one fit and operated the exact same way. He worked the bolt and checked the trigger. He then shouldered the rifle and repeatedly worked the bolt. He brought the rifle down, then looked at the scope, and was happy to see it had quickly-detachable rings. He asked if I minded if he removed the scope if the need arose, and I said of course not. He spent several minutes bonding with the rifle, feeling it for weight and balance.
If you haven’t seen a professional hunter mentally gearing up for a stalk that will end with a potentially life-threatening ambush with just seconds to navigate, then let me tell you, it will send chills up your spine. Saimon’s face, tensed muscles, and the lack of that ever-present smile gave a glimpse straight into his mind. It was evident that he was trying to convince himself that he could defend us with my Ruger .375 H & H. Once he was comfortable with the rifle, he asked for my cartridges, specifically asking how many of the 380-grain Rhino Solid Shanks were left, and we sorted through what we had available. My remaining supply included ten 380-grain Rhinos, six 350-grain North Fork Flat Noses and six 300- grain A-Square Monolithic Solids. My mind flashed back to the forty extra cartridges I had left out of my luggage at the last moment to reduce my bag weight. Oh well, these would have to do. Kenneth helped also with a couple of handfuls of the Hornady DGS cartridges that had worked so well for him on “44”. As we left the veranda, Saimon filled his cartridge holder with the Rhinos, while I did the same with what I had.
Photo by Sergey Pesterev on Unsplash
The drive out was tense, with lots of staring out the windows and little talk. We were on the same route that we had driven previously. We passed the “Lucky” estate of Saimon’s youth, and then our cruiser load of bush justice blew through Triangle about an hour later. We passed the massive mill, and then we hit the well-maintained dirt roads of the plantation. As we neared the edge of the plantation Saimon once again spoke about the buffalo. He surmised that this buffalo must be wounded in some way, because it is not normal for one to attack. He told us that once they start attacking people they don’t stop, and that whereas an elephant, lion or leopard may charge, the Cape buffalo will charge, and we needed to be ready for that.
The roads once again dissolved beneath our tires until we were on not much more than a path on the outskirts of the plantation. We arrived at a cinder-block shack much like the outpost we had seen that morning. It was slightly longer than it was wide, about twenty-five by fifteen feet . The front, facing the path, had one window and its corrugated tin single-rake roof extended out towards the road about ten feet. A brick outhouse was located about forty feet upslope from the house. It was the heat of the day and it was hot. We all were in shorts and light shirts. We jumped out of the Hilux to stand under what shade we could find. A young guy with long pants remained sitting very close to a smoldering fire, with the obligatory aluminum pot perched slightly above. He was carefully cooking his mealy maize. Every so often he would add a bit of corn meal to thicken it up. Saimon sent our driver and chief mechanic to ask where we could find Paul, John’s brother, because we needed more details about the attack. It was almost 4:00 pm, which left us less than three hours before dark to find the buffalo, or for the buffalo to find us.
Paul had not yet returned from the clinic, but was expected at any time. So we had to wait, and while doing so I noticed the shell of a junked-out and vintage Land Rover beside the outpost. It was missing anything and everything that could be carried off. Only the shell remained. Inside the seat-less tub were several cane poles with lures. The end of one pole must have had about ten feet of line, and a special lure. It was a hook with black electrical tape wrapped around it to imitate a juicy grub worm of some sort, a good replica. After admiring that old Land Rover shell that serves as a reminder to foreigners that there were prosperous times here many years ago, I slowly meandered back to the Hilux. Everyone was standing nearby. The heat was only affecting Kenneth and I, the rest, including the guy in long pants stewing his mealy maize by the fire, paid no attention whatsoever.
After about twenty minutes, a lone motorcycle was heard whining in the distance. As it neared on the bullet-straight plantation road, a fine dust trail swirling above the green stalks marked its progress. Minutes later Paul pulled up and dismounted. He looked straight out of the cast of Mad Max. His clothes, like those of the others at the outpost, looked like they would be worn until they fell apart. Saimon approached to let him know that the park headquarters had sent us to help find the rogue buffalo. Paul advised that John had suffered some internal injuries, and once he was in good hands at the hospital, he had hurried back here to help find what he described as “a really big buffalo”. It had been a five-hour round-trip, but Paul was ready to help.
In short order, we were all loaded back into the Hilux. Under Paul’s guidance we quickly left the sunlight, as the jungle tree canopy closed over the trail, which was bordered by the remains of a four-strand cattle fence. Inside the concession, the topography was rolling, with elevation changes of about thirty feet. Along the way we spooked a couple of troops of monkeys and baboons as they crossed in front of us. A deep creekbed snaked its way just inside the cattle fence. It was a full twenty feet below the higher ground and wide, almost wide enough to drive a small 4x4 through. Minutes later we came to a full stop. We were there. Or were we here, here where something we had never seen might change the course of our lives? Mike and I had walked through the valley of the shadow of death earlier in the hunt, but when the visibility became reduced to a couple of barrel lengths, Nixon had held us back. This time there was no holding us back. We were going in.
Photo by Jacob Vizek on Unsplash
Once again Saimon practiced shouldering my Ruger. He must have done so ten times before he loaded it, each time working the bolt to insure a flawless reload without having to unshoulder the rifle. It was as if he could not be too sure that it was in perfect working order. These actions, like the ones back at the lodge, entailed no bravado. He was making deadly sure that he knew what he was doing and how. His mind’s eye saw the charge that he knew he would face, and he worked the bolt through all four shots while the buffalo closed in on his barrel. His seriousness left Kenneth and I focused like in no other hunt we had ever experienced. We loaded our rifles and made sure the safeties were on and that we had our reserve ammo. Kenneth had his 300-grain DGS bullets, while Saimon and I had my 380-grain Rhino handloads, discharging as some might say a paltry 2,200 fps. But I knew better.
Hunting is a sport for most of us. What defines a sport? First, it is something you enjoy doing enough to practice at, with aspirations to be good at it. Second, a sport typically challenges something deep inside you that prompts your desire to excel. Not every sport generates that desire. Some people react to multiple challenges, while others never really find anything. A sport doesn’t have to be settled in the bush. Some battle it out in courtrooms, others with long mathematical formulas, while others use marbles. It matters not the field of play or the challenge. What matters is that you are alive from the inside out, that you are responding to the call of adventure, which we were at that point. Somewhere back at the lunch table something deep from within Kenneth and I had compelled us to agree to accept the challenge of facing a Cape buffalo bent on seeking revenge.
Sport requires confidence. Confidence can come from many places, but it starts with experience. The experience doesn’t have to be directly attributable to the challenge at hand, but the wise player must understand what he brings to the game, and if it is suitable for the challenge. Kenneth brought his lifetime of hunting the Rocky Mountains for deer, elk and bear, and dodging rain squalls while fishing offshore. His Kleinguenther .375 H & H, loaded with 300-grain Hornady DGS bullets, had boosted his confidence to new heights on “44”. Still, hunting a PAC buffalo up close was yet again an untested part of him that left a few question marks. Still he was game, without reservation.
I, on the other hand, had had a few similar situations to draw from over the years that had prompted me to grab a ticket for this game of death or glory. Yes, in this case the stakes would be high. You had to know where those dark places of doubt hid within you. You had to know that when it counted, you would overcome your fears. You had to know all that, for this game was for keeps. In my mind, it could not be any worse than when I had stood almost under an elephant that was going crazy, with trumpeting, ear flapping and dust kicking. That experience still makes my legs shake, and I am not embarrassed to admit it.
For this dust-up with a rogue buffalo, confidence for me came in the form of my Chapuis .375 double. It’s not the answer for a seventy-five-yard open prairie shot, but it was perfect for this jungle. Kenneth and Saimon were loaded with four rounds each, but it never occurred to me that I would need more than two shots. For in my mind, I was the shooter of last resort, and I was comfortable with that role. Saimon said that my Chapuis would be fine as a backup rifle. That is what most, if not all, professional hunters will tell their hunting clients. It makes perfect sense. There are no flaws in their logic or judgement. In my book Hunting Namibia, I made the case that if you can shoot a rifle with two triggers under true panic conditions, then there are times that the hobby hunter is best suited with a double rifle of moderate recoil. The key is the natural ability to move your index finger from the front to the back trigger without even thinking about it. That is why I take my 1935 L.C. Smith 20-gauge into the dove fields every year at the KC Ranch. Not only do I enjoy the humbling experience of dove hunting with that beautiful old side-by-side, it keeps me trained to move my index finger to the second trigger, and not to shoot until it counts. In fact, all of my hunting shotguns are double barrels, and it does train you to wait, wait until you have a killing shot. In recent years my everyday dove shotgun has become a .410. It doesn’t further damage my hearing, and it really forces me to wait for the right shot. In fact, I kill the same number if not more birds with the .410, as the recoil or lack thereof results in more accurate aiming. Several of my hunting buddies have borrowed it and then bought one. I’ve said it before and I will say it again, the greater the recoil that your brain is positioning for, the less attention it has left over for the point of aim. In my experience this applies to both shotguns and rifles.
With my case made for the mildly-recoiling double rifle in Hunting Namibia, it was time to put it to the test again. It had worked well in the Caprivi, but the buffalo there had not been bent on revenge. They had just been minding their own business until we started shooting at them. Still, I had the chance to practice reloading as they took their first steps into their final death charge.
Caprivi Buffalo
It would have been preferable that a life was not on the line in so doing, but why else would I have a double rifle in my hands anyway? It seems this was the only way forward, and it led into the tangle of grass, vines and brush just on the other side of the fence. I loaded each barrel with a 380-grain Rhino. Loading those cartridges made a distinctive thrump noise, with a faint echo as they slid in. With both tubes fully charged, I was ready with the confidence that I had the rifle I wanted in my hands. If all else failed, I had two chances to turn the tables on the ambusher. It is what it is, and don’t forget that the “is” part includes eight shots from two hunters that I had total confidence in as well.
Kenneth and Saimon were loaded. Paul carried his pack with a couple of bottles of water and my video camera. He gapped the fence wires and we levered our way through the old rusty barbs. The creek we had been following was once again just inside the fence. We dropped down into the pebbled-rock creekbed, no more than one hundred yards from the truck. Paul led the way, but within a few minutes he stopped. He pointed to an area where an obvious disturbance had occurred. Just ahead, the otherwise natural pattern of water-washed sand and gravel had changed into a jagged asymmetrical patch of broken earth. Hoofs had dug deep past the dry light-brown colors of the surface sand into the moist deep-brown silt layer below. John’s boot marks were still evident, where just hours before he had tried to use the toe of his boots to push himself face down across the sand, to the relative safety of the embankment. The creekbed abruptly rose on either side of this area. John must have thought that the seam between the creekbed and its almost vertical bank offered the most safety. The wide blades of long grass would have been bent from the weight of recent moisture, but here they were torn from their roots. They were scattered atop the strewn dirt, sand and rocks. Taking it all in, Saimon and Chaulke pieced together what had happened. John must have been standing in the creekbed when Big Ugly ambushed him from the tall grass above the embankment. He was taken by total surprise, which explained why his AK-47 trigger never moved. The monster must have been on top of him instantly. The churned-up rocks and sand bore witness to his struggle to get the monster off of him. Unarmed, Paul had no choice but to run. The attack must have lasted several minutes. Then John must have lain still from his injuries and exhaustion. Once the monster was satisfied that he was dead, he left the scene by climbing up the other embankment, opposite the side of his ambush lair.
At this point, Saimon once again practiced with my Ruger. He would bring it up to his shoulder to make sure that his eye was properly seated in the center of the scope. He then sent Chaulke up the embankment on the spoor. The long, bent grass clearly marked Big Ugly’s escape route. The buffalo had first gone downstream towards the fence, then, based on what Chaulke had found, had reversed course and gone upwind deeper into the bush. Chaulke led the way, Saimon followed, then me, then Kenneth, then the park ranger followed by Paul and the rest of the party. It was quite a posse, but the deep grass and soft dirt underfoot made for a fairly silent stalk.
The buffalo’s spoor led us farther and farther into the tangle, which most of the time was up to our chins, and the visibility over the grass was limited to ten or twenty yards. However, the walk was not completely dark and foreboding. Mingled in the grass were a number of vibrantly colored flowers. Saimon whispered their names and later that night we talked about them again. The little purple ones, about the size of a dime, were Erica Silvaticas and the yellow ones were Artemisia Afra, known locally as African wormwood. The yellow ones, about the size of a quarter, are medicinal and are used for treating fevers and sore throats. The flowers were growing about chest high, and as thick as the grass, which made it hard to imagine a boiling black pot of adrenaline crashing down on top of us through such a beautiful setting.
It was the yin and yang of life to both extremes. There was no wind and no alternate routes. If this buffalo sensed us and circled back on its track, like they typically do, then it would have at least one of us down before a single shot was fired. Kenneth and I had just as much responsibility covering our side tracks as Chaulke and Saimon had looking forward. At times we moved as a school of fish, at other times we strung out, sometimes to the extent that Saimon would motion for us to close ranks.
Photo by High Tea With Elephants on Unsplash
Twenty minutes into the stalk, which progressed one foot at a time, Chaulke caught sight of a dark shape on a slight ridge up in the distance. After only a few days of hunting behind African trackers, even the hobby hunter quickly cues off the tracker’s eyes. In fact, their eyes and their ears become our eyes and our ears in the bush. Their senses hold our lives in the balance. Our eyes followed the direction of Chaulke’s stare, and we picked up the object. From his demeanor, we surmised that the object was the monster buffalo lying on its side facing away. We were in a low spot with the monster above us, just like his ambush position had been on John only hours before. If the monster charged he would step off the ridge, and disappear into the grass, only to re-emerge about thirty-five yards closer or about three barrel lengths from us! Chaulke wanted to move to the rear. He felt that his job was done, and he was beside himself with fear as he sensed a charge was imminent.
We all had a clear view, and we remained motionless. It was only because of the elevation change that we could see that far up ahead. We thought we had caught a break. Saimon set up the shooting sticks to get a better look because we could not see a head, just a big monolithic grey-black motionless shape in the shadows up on the embankment. He began searching for my Swarovski binoculars. Who had them? I had turned them over to him on our first day, so I hadn’t been thinking about them when we left the Hilux. Well, apparently, no one had them. Chaulke was getting antsier and antsier as the minutes passed. He wanted out of there. Saimon detached the scope from my Ruger, turned the magnification up to five, and used it as a monocular. We remained fixated on the immobile shape, while Saimon put the Burris Signature Series scope on the shooting sticks to steady his view. After a minute more, he began to think that maybe it wasn’t a buffalo, because he couldn’t find the head. Several more minutes passed while Kenneth and I were straining in preparation, ready should the situation warrant. This shade of Black Syn would be all over us like a wet blanket if it caught our wind. Confusion reigned; both Saimon and Chaulke were sure of what they were looking at, but their conclusions were vastly different.
After a few more whispers Saimon made the call to press on. He was convinced that the shape was a rock or some trick from the shadows. Chaulke however would not go against his instincts without a direct order from Saimon. After one final look, he ordered him forward. On this command, Chaulke hesitantly picked his way towards the object. Because it was above the grass line, it became clear within another ten yards that it was indeed a rock, a rock exactly the same size as a resting buffalo. We relaxed while Saimon reattached the Burris to the Ruger. As this was a dangerous situation, any distraction can be deadly. Even while trying to get a fix on what we thought was the Big Ugly, we had to remain on our guard, for at any moment the buffalo could charge from any direction.
Our stalk continued on the spoor, through alternating flashes of sunshine and dark foreboding shade. The trees were tall with outstretched canopies. Their trunks had no thorns, which was a nice thing to know if we needed to climb one. We waded through chest-deep grass in the flatter areas, and then we passed a few thick stands of trees as we tracked that which we knew would give no warning before its deadly ambush. After about an hour we might have covered five hundred yards. Each step was yet another perfect ambush spot. We had to keep up our intensity or simply just walk away.
A few steps further and we entered a clearing of sorts. The sunlight beamed through the trees, and we could see about twenty-five yards in front of us. Beyond was a wall of grass higher than our heads, with trees interlaced therein. Chaulke looked back at Saimon and whispered that we were very close. He pointed forward into the grass wall now ten yards off our barrel tips. He pulled out his bag of ashes and checked the wind, which remained in our favor. Saimon practiced shouldering his rifle a few more times, and then he pointed at the wall too. He cupped his hand around his ear. He had heard the predator. I quickly checked myself and noticed that I had planned poorly. My shirt had a pocket on the side of my chest that I must raise the rifle stock up through. I quickly tucked the flap into the pocket so my rifle stock could not possibly snag on it. I looked back at Kenneth; he was already maneuvering so he had a clear shot to my left when the charge came. Then, I looked again at the grass wall as we remained motionless. Saimon had the shooting sticks positioned in front of him, but I wasn’t about to waste time on those, and I don’t think he wanted to be fiddling with them either. Then he whispered that he could hear the buffalo chewing. I couldn’t hear that, but within seconds we all heard the heavy rapid clomps of Big Ugly’s hooves as he shifted his position about five yards from our right center to almost centering on us. Then the noise stopped.
Saimon said we could go no closer. We had a large tree off to our right. He motioned for Paul to come forward to climb the tree to see if he could see behind the wall of grass. Within a minute Paul was silently scaling the tree, his bare feet aiding his grip. The limbs were well spaced for a climb, and he made it look easy. We tried to divide our attention between him and the predator that was waiting to charge on the other side of the wall. The buffalo must have needed a bit more information before it launched its charge. At this point it had clearly heard us but had not smelled us, nor had it seen us. It was waiting. Paul reported from the top of the tree with hand signals that no matter where he climbed he could not see beyond the wall. Saimon motioned for him to come down. When he rejoined the group, Saimon whispered to our gathered ears that we were to retreat. We backed out, and once we had put fifty yards or so between us and the grass wall, he asked Chaulke to find a way to curl around to the predator’s nine o’clock position. We could not come in from behind due to the wind, but we could catch him from the side.
We relaxed a bit as we looped around. We went faster now that Saimon and Chaulke knew the predator’s location. It took but a few minutes to cut back to its location. As we closed the noose Saimon stopped and considered the lack of visibility. He removed the Burris scope once more and re-shouldered the Ruger a number of times. He carefully memorized its every nuance, while drawing a bead on various points, to insure that when he needed to align his aim he would not fail. Then he drew Kenneth and me into his deadly serious face. His unblinking eyes looked deeply into ours. He said, “Look around you, all these guys will run when the buffalo charges. I need to know right now if you are going to run too. This predator is going to charge and he will try to kill one of us.” His steely stare into our eyes lasted a long time. He was not listening to what our lips were saying but was reading our eyes which he knew were windows into our souls. He had never been in a situation like this with unproven hunters. This version of Black Death was coming from an almost indefensible distance. We had already heard countless of his stories about hobby hunters running while Big Ugly was still fifty yards out. This charge might well start from a fraction of that. This was a situation like those that usually end with an obituary saluting the brave PH that gave his life to save his clients. Saimon knew that he was standing at the forefront of this potential obituary, even if we did not.
With equal seriousness, we replied. “Saimon, we will finish what we’ve started.” His stare lingered a second more, then he turned without saying a word and focused back on the spoor, while Chaulke unzipped his pack and slid in the Burris. I don’t know about you, but few stories proceed with the PH knowing that he is better off without a scope.
Some stalks for African animals last hours, cover many miles and include bouts of near dehydration. That is not this story. The entire area that we hunted was no bigger than four football fields, and at no time could we see more than thirty yards from our barrels. We travelled slowly but surely, and we could not advance until Chaulke and Saimon determined that it was safe to take another step. Because it was so thick, our loop was much shorter than it would have been during the hunting months, with dead grass and leafless trees. It took no more than twenty minutes to complete. If the buffalo had not moved during this flanking maneuver, we were nearing his nine-o’clock position. The tree that Paul had climbed was at our ten o’clock position, probably another seventy-five yards away. Since leaving the ridge that the rock-shaped buffalo occupied, the topography had flattened out. It was an exercise of weaving and ducking through the deadfall, vines, and low-hanging limbs.
With each painstaking step, we closed the distance. Just seconds after Saimon’s little survey of our souls, we walked into another clearing, this one possibly the largest yet. The grass was no higher than our knees, and we could see thirty-five yards in the direction we needed to go. The marker tree was twenty yards closer, and we could just see its familiar trunk that gently bent through the trees up in the distance. Chaulke and Saimon led us into the clearing. It seemed that all was clear, and we momentarily relaxed in the open among the much shorter grass. For the first time in an hour, we could see a respectable distance ahead of us. Kenneth and I remained stationary while Chaulke and Saimon walked another five yards, but off of the intended line to my left, as if they wanted to check the shadows to insure that the buffalo had not staged up on us. This left them in a shady area under some small brushy trees, while Kenneth and I hung back in the sunlight. Kenneth pulled his handkerchief out and wiped the dripping sweat from his neck, face, and forehead, while I let my guard down a bit as well. We checked our safeties for what seemed like the fiftieth time. A minute passed. We each had a “line of sight” we were responsible for, and at this moment mine was directly in the area where we thought the buffalo lay in wait. So I kept looking in that direction and Kenneth covered the morass of tangle off our right shoulder. In the distance, at about thirty-five yards, the wall of grass and overlapping limbs once again obscured our collective view. From other stories in my other books, you may recall that at times I have sensed the proximity of a hunted animal. In this instance, that feeling returned. I looked but I did not see, though the kaleidoscope of signs told that part of me that so rarely surfaces, that the beast was indeed there. My eyes focused on a dark spot in the grass just short of the shadowy abyss. It was silent, no birds were chirping, no monkeys were screaming warnings from the trees, and no wind was rocking even a single leaf.
In the next instant, the predator materialized. It rose. Buffalo! That is all I said. While staring into the future, the embodiment of pure revenge rose from the grass. From the darker shade of grass rose a beast of pure black. As he stood his body was facing the direction we had been when Paul climbed the tree, which meant he was now broadside to us. In the blink of an eye, but in slow motion in my mind’s eye, he was standing right at the very spot at which I stared. He was on his feet before I could even say buffalo! As he stood his bulging bloodshot eyes, protected by two thick black hooks, turned to face us. My double rifle was already on my shoulder as our eyes locked. I heard rustling on both sides of me. The beast lowered his head to begin shifting his body for the first step into the charge that we expected. As he lowered his nose to the ground to pull his body behind his hooks, I fired my first shot at his lowered head. Boom, my double rifle recoiled, then I heard another boom on my left. At those two shots, he jerked his head up and turned away to flee. My index finger naturally moved to the back trigger, as my second shot with my last .380-grain Rhino discharged. Boom! When my double settled back down to my point of aim he was gone, lost in the dark abyss beyond. He had been waiting in ambush in that short grass the whole time we were there.
His exit gave us time to regroup. As we compared notes, I quickly “tubed” two more cartridges, this time using the 350-grain North Fork Flat Noses. Saimon said that he thought that he had missed, as a brushy tree was blocking his view. Kenneth was covering our right side and rear, so by the time he turned and tried to square up for a shot, the predator was already in the darkness. It had happened that fast. Only a mildly recoiling double could have gotten two shots off so quickly. I reported that my first shot must have missed too since it was at the buffalo’s lowered head and that my second was into his body as he turned away and ran. So far, Kenneth and I had remained good to our word, we had not run. In fact, the thought never crossed our minds; at least that is what our actions said.
As hunters do, I tried to replay the events. I felt that the hold for the first shot had been good. Then I recalled telling everyone that I thought there was no way I could have missed that second shot. It was into the buffalo’s quartering-away body, a shot that Robertson says never to take, by the way. I thought out loud, “How do you miss a buffalo quartering at thirty-five yards?” Regardless, I didn’t expect to see a report. You only need to watch one buffalo absorb numerous hits from dinosaur blasters to learn that fact, as my memory flashed back to those two bulls that we had shot in the Caprivi. Both were shot at least once at fifteen yards before they fled. When we caught up to them they had already turned on their track to charge. At that moment, they both absorbed another half dozen shots each from a mix of .375 and .450 NE cartridges at fifty yards. Neither bull flinched until they collapsed. We never let them take more than a few brief steps toward us. with nothing but the open ground between us. It is a crystal clear memory and a testament to their legendary tenacity. Kenneth’s “44” reinforced the fact that the only shots that can save your life during a charge are to the spine and brain. It is that simple. No other shot matters.
It must have been an eye-opening experience for “44”. Kenneth’s spine shot dropped that monster bull in its tracks. He was now on the spoor of the same monster, but of a different shade of black. There was no turning back now. This time Black Syn was on the move, staging his next ambush, and we had no choice but to follow him before another innocent victim was caught in his hooks, and stomped to putty under his hooves.
This time, Saimon dictated the place and the time for the showdown; we had clearly caught the buffalo off guard. Next time would we be so lucky? His ambush lair was about thirty yards from where we left him. He may have backed out of the tall grass to the more open ground so he could get a better look at his tormentors. Still, he was facing in the direction of our original approach, which meant that he was facing downwind, which they only do when they are preparing for a stand. Saimon asked if we were loaded and ready to press on. Little was said, but it was clear that we were. Chaulke led the way.
Photo by Ryan Jubber on Unsplash
Our single file and silent line of justice advanced approximately thirty-five yards through the knee-high grass to the shadows. Now we were close to the tree that Paul had climbed. It was well within view at our ten o’clock as we inched through the trees. It took about ten minutes to cover those yards. Just beyond the shadows was another open patch without trees and with grass a bit more than knee-high. The area was about the size of a three-car garage, with taller grass and trees at its perimeter, and wider than it was deep. We strained to see any movement within the shadows or the tall grass. We followed the spoor to the edge of the shadows. The shorter grass was just outside and beyond our next steps. Walking out there would be the bush equivalent of stepping onto a stage with a spotlight squarely on us.
We found no blood mixed with the spoor, so it seemed that I had missed both shots. Before Chaulke stepped into the light Saimon turned on his step back to Kenneth and I. He looked again through our eyes and into our minds, and reminded us one more time, “This buffalo is going to try to kill one of us. Chaulke, Paul, and the rest of the party will all run. They have no choice. Do you understand? If you run and leave me alone he will probably kill me before I can kill him. Are you going to give him your back or are you going to stay until the monster is dead? I need to know.” His eyes remained fixed on our guts, as through our eyes. In the silence of the moment, every beat of our hearts reverberated to the now strained and stiffened muscles at the base of our skulls. The pulses of blood and adrenaline felt strong enough to shake the sweat from our foreheads.
We both whispered back, “We are in, we will not run.” Saimon’s eyes remained fixed on ours, his expression was that of a person who knew that lives would soon be on the line. He knew what the monster predator would do, but was he sure of what we would do? His expression was not threatening. It was just focused on what he saw within us, it left no room for the worthless staged smirks, squinty eyes or raised eyebrows used by TV hunters on those Saturday morning shows.
The tension broke when he turned back to Chaulke. At that I looked back down at my right chest pocket to make sure the flap was still tucked in. Kenneth looked down at his Kleinguenther action to make sure that everything was in the right place. We both had been searching for a legit reason to separate our eyes from Saimon’s before he could find something in one of our souls that would pull us off this patrol.
Satisfied, he turned to face the spoor trail, hoping that we would not give our backs to the predator whose instincts have been honed over the millennia that tell it to kill those on its trail. It is these instincts that are so misunderstood by Westerners. Why? I think it is because buffalo are bovines. They look like cows, and we know bulls can be aggressive so we generally know to give them some space. Western hunters sometimes fail to look beyond the obvious. This mistake can be grave. Many fail to understand the deeper unseen instincts that this type of cow has thinly concealed beneath its face, instincts that say “I hate you, and I really mean it.” This thin veil of concealment is all that is needed to prevent us from understanding that this predator has the mind of a lion. How can this be? It is quite natural. The Cape buffalo is the lion’s favorite food; lions are on their trail all the time. They have learned the art of ambush from the tactic’s originator, one simply learned from the other. Both double back on their trail to stage an ambush, and both will charge and fight to the death when cornered, ambushed, or wounded. Thank God Almighty Cape buffalo can’t climb trees. With their numbers, people would not exist!
Chaulke was four feet ahead of me, Saimon was two feet behind him, and Kenneth was two feet behind me. We were in single file following the spoor that led straight into the ten-foot-tall grass we had found the bull in almost an hour before. We could now see the back side of the grass wall for the first time. The stand of tall grass separated us from the tall tree that Paul had climbed, though the tree was on the left side of the stand of grass. Kenneth was looking past the back of my head towards the wall of grass and vines just ahead. I was looking past the back of Saimon’s head as he looked just past the back of Chaulke. Chaulke’s first step forward from the shadows into the light unleashed the predator. He yelled, “Here he comes!” As he yelled, the first grunts of the straining predator were heard. Chaulke jumped back and out of the way. In the next second, I saw then heard Saimon backing out of my line of fire to my right. He was now behind me by several feet. Kenneth simultaneously and expertly moved to my left, and I remained in place. Without any serious planning, all three of us formed a perfect firing line to try to stop this predator before he was on top of one of us. While we were organizing, the predator was coming; his massive shoulders were parting the grass as he bore down on us from thirty feet. Three steps into the charge the sound of his pounding hooves mixed with the sound of grass popping and snapping, as it broke from his accelerating hooks and legs. His grunts, from deep within his black heart, are the final sounds he casts that warns his target that everything within the beast is straining with every ounce of adrenaline-fueled muscle that he has that he is coming to kill. The pounding of his hooves was synchronized with his grunts, as his mass of blackness bore down on us. We held our fire until Big Ugly’s hooks broke through the grass wall about fifteen feet before us. Broken grass hung from his thick black hooks as he exploded into the light. His charge was led by his bulging bloodshot eyes and an outstretched nose with frothy slime oozing from both corners. Above those signs of stress and strain, his shiny black hooks were pointed towards that which he knew from experience he must kill, or be killed. These are the times when your brain can catch the detail one frame at a time. The next frame is seen just as clearly as the last. In this frame the wall of grass was behind the predator and the last of the broken grass was falling away. He was quartering into us from behind the saplings to my left, and mostly in front of Kenneth. Once he cleared the saplings the only things that separated him from us were intentions and instincts. He had his, we had ours. In the next frame either he would have a hook full of guts or he would be finished. There was nothing in between.
After passing the sapling he turned to his right, straight into us from twelve feet. As soon as his head cleared the sapling he squared up on us. Saimon fired first, then Kenneth, and then I opened up a split second later. Boom, boom, boom! Our shots hit home but with no immediate effect. His charge continued without hesitation. Times like this convince the hunter that bullet speed is far slower than the body speed of an ambushing beast, whether it be an elephant, buffalo, lion, or leopard. Body speed trumps bullet speed every time, for at these moments, from this distance, even the slowest bullets are one hundred percent effective in just a few places, the brain, and the spine. Times like this will make the hunter think about the necessity or insanity of a cartridge that throws your muzzle three feet off your point of aim. Times like this leave no doubt your life span is now just that….a life span now measured in feet, not time. In this instance, it was about three feet. If a second shot is required, will you be able to get back on target before your lungs dangle from a tusk, hook, or canine? Many have chosen poorly. Many have never been able to quickly re-center on the target to deliver that decisive second shot. The recoil of their dyno-blaster robbed them of this opportunity. For them, it was one and done.
This predator was closing at a rate of about ten feet per second. As my rifle re-centered after the recoil from the first shot, it came back down on the blackest patch of hair between the bloodshot eyes, as they looked up at me to find my softest spot for a slash from one of his hooks. My index finger subconsciously moved to the back trigger in anticipation of one last try before it all went dark. As his head lowered for his upward thrust into my guts, my barrels followed. With his nose nearly on the ground and his bulging eyes looking up into mine, my final 350-grain North Forth Flat Nose fired off. Boom! After a few inches of recoil, my eye followed my barrels back onto his face as if I had a third shot. I vividly recall the force of my slug rolling his bloodshot eyes up into his head while his nose plowed into the dirt. He traveled about ten inches after his eyes rolled back in his head. In the final frame, he was stone-cold dead approximately five feet from my smoking barrels. There was silence, there were no more shots.
PAC Buffalo after kill shot taken at 5 feet
It took a few seconds for each of us to uncoil from our last shooting position. It was like climbing out of a car crash and checking yourself for injuries. Your first thoughts are that you “seem” unharmed, but are you really, so you start feeling yourself for working or non-working parts. Eventually, you find yourself no worse for the wear, at least sometimes. With the predator rendered harmless, the three of us checked with each other to ensure everything was okay. Saimon came forward while Kenneth moved up as well. Saimon was the first to express his excitement. He had one of my failed cartridges in his right hand, still un-nerved by the failure, though not upset. He said by the time he loaded the third cartridge the buff was already dead. On the other hand, Kenneth got off his shot but then failed to strip the second round out of the magazine when he cycled the bolt forward, so he was sitting on an empty barrel as well. So as it turned out, the three of us stood over the beast that had been bent on killing us, with three empty rifles.
After we took a minute to think things through and count our blessings, we were curious to see where the hits had ended up. It had all happened so fast we had to glue the pieces back together. Saimon’s shot had creased the top of the spine. Kenneth had added what was almost a perfect lower-spine shot, as he had the outstretched neck for an aiming point. Both of these shots were very close to being the story-enders. For my shots, we had to go back to the first two shots when he rose out of the grass. Kenneth found where my first shot had hit above the hoof on the ankle, which was in the area of his lowered head. My second shot must have been missed. Later, when the buffalo charged, my first shot had been just above the left eye, pretty much straight on as his head was up at that point. As he closed in on us and lowered his head for the hook, my second shot found the brain with a shot between the eyes.
We then surveyed the predator from all angles. Much as Saimon had thought, he had been wounded. Long, deep and festering gashes on his hindquarters told the natural tale of survival. In the wilds of Africa, one animal must die in order for another to live. The deep gashes meant that he had survived at least one lion attack, which had probably occurred within a few weeks of our arrival. He had been separated from his herd and had already lost a good bit of weight. He wasn’t long for the world and he wanted to take as many people with him as he could when he left. It was a sad sight any way you look at it. The only victory was that he was killed before he could ambush another victim. But then that was the plan all along. He was a very young bull, so there was no trophy quality worthy of any further effort. After some quick photos and a video, Saimon had the Hilux brought up. He wanted us to clear out as fast as possible as he felt it likely that the lion was still trailing the buffalo and was waiting for our departure. The buffalo looked unfit for human consumption, so as we departed Saimon asked the scout to burn the carcass quickly so it could not be eaten by any of the locals that might come on hearing the shots.
Lion scars on the PAC Buffalo
Saimon’s predictions that lion were still stalking the wounded buffalo proved correct. The next day we had planned to return to the same area in hopes of finding the full buffalo herd, because we still needed one more trophy bull. As we were closing in on the concession gate Simon received a call indicating a pride of lion had occupied the area, and one had a collar. Nobody wanted to be anywhere near another “collared” lion with a name, so we pulled off the buffalo in search of hippo.
Each of us has memories of that charge. Each of us played our roles perfectly. Black Death comes in many shades of black and by many names, though they all have several things in common. They all attack when wounded, and they all look at you with a look that unmistakably says, “I hate you and I really mean it this time.”
