OntarioHunter
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- Sep 11, 2020
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As requested, here is the story of my recent African cape buffalo hunt. Hell, you know me. I'd stuff it down your throats if it wasn't requested.
I flew into Kimberly area specifically to hunt buffalo. The country up there has not been hit so hard by the seven year drought that has plagued the lodge's country in East Cape. Flying into the airport I could only marvel at what lay below me. "Man, that is some HUNTING land for sure!" Sorry I couldn't get a good photo. My seat was almost on top of the plane's wing. We arrived at the farm owner's beautiful home in the afternoon in time to check the rifles at the range. I brought my Springfield 30-06 with me that had only just been rebarreled three days before leaving. It put up a decent group the day before my flight so I figured it was good to go. And at the farm's range it hit the bull 2" high at 100 yards which was about right. I then took one shot with the PH's .375 CZ Magnum Safari, the same gun I used to take my buffalo on the last trip. It was bang on. So I was ready to go ... or so I thought. Next morning Glen, the tracker, and I went hunting for red hartbeest while the owner looked for the bull buffalo he wanted shot. It was a nasty old dagga boy who had been doing damage to some of the younger animals in the buffalo herd. He couldn't dethrone the herd bull and was taking out his frustration on some of the calves. Time to cull that guy. The property we were hunting is immense, particularly the hunting sections. The variety and quantity of game is absolutely mind boggling. As we drove out that first morning I could see springbuck everywhere. They were like gophers on the Great Plains. A group of local hunters was in the hunting lodge across the road culling dozens of them every day. All I had to do was look in any direction and there would be gemsbuck, zebra, blesbuck, bontbuck, sable, roan. kudu, waterbuck, impala, wildebeest (blue and black and even a couple of the cultivated golden variety), buffalo, and giraffe.
Springbuck, gemsbuck, and zebra were quite spooky, but most of the other animals would stand and look at the truck as we drove by.
However, once you stepped on the ground they ALL would take off. Glen explained that this farm does not allow shooting from vehicles and that's why most animals will tolerate trucks driving by. My lodge simply will not deal with any property that allows shooting from a vehicle. It wrecks the hunting. And it's hardly ethical.
After about an hour our tracker seated in the pickup's crows nest pounded on the cab. He spotted a lone hartbeest several hundred yards out on a small rise. Those things really gleam, especially in the morning sun. It was a nice old bull and the stalk was on. Moving from bush to bush we closed the distance to eighty yards and I got on the sticks. Bang ... and away he went. What the ...? An idiot could make that shot. He didn't go far and stood behind a bush at 200 yards. Another easy shot and nothing happened. Curiously, whem bumped the bull never ran far before stopping, but he never let us get in range again. Glen figured he was just a very old animal in tough shape. We finally determined it wasn't hit and gave up. Back in the vehicle Glen spotted a herd of hartbeest out on an open plain. They were all cows and calves and on the move as soon as we stopped. Then our tracker spotted a group of seven bulls and a lone wildebeest way off to the left. They were grazing and hadn't seen us yet. It was a difficult long stalk but we were finally within 250 metres when Glen set up the sticks. No more cover to get closer. It seemed to take forever before the big bull in the middle was clear of the others for a shot. I put the Springfield's crosshairs a bit high and centred on his shoulder. This time we heard a hit. The bull should have been knocked over but instead it took off running with the others. I could see through the scope his right front leg was flopping at the knee. What the hell! They didn't go far before stopping. We closed to 100 yards for an easy broadside shot. Nothing! Away they went again. This time I took a shot at the bull on the run and there was another audible hit but he kept going. The group stopped at two hundred metres. Our bull was now obviously very sick. I put the crosshairs in the centre of his boiler room and down he went, finally. We walked up cautiously. Surprisingly, his head was still up. The rest of the bulls stood there letting us get within fifty yards before running. They moved off about 150 yards and never left. Guess they were waiting for granddad to give orders. The bull on the ground was hit in the back just touching shoulder end of backstraps. The previous hit on the run was gut shot. Good grief! Glen finished the poor bugger with a 9mm shot to the heart which was fine with me. My 165 gr Partitions would make a mess at point blank range.
The owner called on the radio: he'd spotted the designated bad boy buffalo with three other bulls on the other end of the property. As quickly as possible our tracker fetched the truck and we loaded the hartbeest. The owner took us to the general area of the buffalo. They were last seen hanging out near the base of a steep koppi (hill) in terrible thick stuff: acacia and blackthorn that will rip clothes at every opportunity. We could hear the bulls walking around us ... and they could hear us too. Round and round we went in that crap. They weren't coming out and, much to my relief, Glen decided to give it up when the sun went behind the koppi. I tell ya, waltzing around in that jungle for an hour or so thirty to forty yards from a group of four one thousand pound animals that could at any moment switch from flight to fight was more than a little unnerving ... even for old Mr. Cool from Canada. Yeah, we had three big guns ... but there were four of them. As we walked back to the truck Glen explained that it's almost unheard of for more than one bull in a bunch to charge. "Almost" didn't ease my anxiety a whole helluva lot.
Back at the ranch complex, while the skinners and our tracker were working on the hartbeest, Glen picked up the lodge's 30-06 and we headed back to the range. Three rounds and my Springfield was shooting all over the paper at 100 yards. The lodge gun shot where it was supposed to. It would have to be my plains game gun for the rest of this trip. That night I was up at 3:00 a.m. tied in knots about that Springfield. What the heck happened? I pulled the gun from the case and checked it over. Hmmm. With butt on the floor, I grabbed the barrel in left hand and fore end in right hand. The barrel wiggled all the way to the action. It had somehow come loose from the bedding job I'd done for the new barrel two days before leaving. Well, I wasn't going to mess with trying to fix it. I came to Africa to hunt not spend a lot of time at the range sorting out mysteries. At least I had an explanation and that was enough to get me back to sleep and rested for day two.
I flew into Kimberly area specifically to hunt buffalo. The country up there has not been hit so hard by the seven year drought that has plagued the lodge's country in East Cape. Flying into the airport I could only marvel at what lay below me. "Man, that is some HUNTING land for sure!" Sorry I couldn't get a good photo. My seat was almost on top of the plane's wing. We arrived at the farm owner's beautiful home in the afternoon in time to check the rifles at the range. I brought my Springfield 30-06 with me that had only just been rebarreled three days before leaving. It put up a decent group the day before my flight so I figured it was good to go. And at the farm's range it hit the bull 2" high at 100 yards which was about right. I then took one shot with the PH's .375 CZ Magnum Safari, the same gun I used to take my buffalo on the last trip. It was bang on. So I was ready to go ... or so I thought. Next morning Glen, the tracker, and I went hunting for red hartbeest while the owner looked for the bull buffalo he wanted shot. It was a nasty old dagga boy who had been doing damage to some of the younger animals in the buffalo herd. He couldn't dethrone the herd bull and was taking out his frustration on some of the calves. Time to cull that guy. The property we were hunting is immense, particularly the hunting sections. The variety and quantity of game is absolutely mind boggling. As we drove out that first morning I could see springbuck everywhere. They were like gophers on the Great Plains. A group of local hunters was in the hunting lodge across the road culling dozens of them every day. All I had to do was look in any direction and there would be gemsbuck, zebra, blesbuck, bontbuck, sable, roan. kudu, waterbuck, impala, wildebeest (blue and black and even a couple of the cultivated golden variety), buffalo, and giraffe.
Springbuck, gemsbuck, and zebra were quite spooky, but most of the other animals would stand and look at the truck as we drove by.
However, once you stepped on the ground they ALL would take off. Glen explained that this farm does not allow shooting from vehicles and that's why most animals will tolerate trucks driving by. My lodge simply will not deal with any property that allows shooting from a vehicle. It wrecks the hunting. And it's hardly ethical.After about an hour our tracker seated in the pickup's crows nest pounded on the cab. He spotted a lone hartbeest several hundred yards out on a small rise. Those things really gleam, especially in the morning sun. It was a nice old bull and the stalk was on. Moving from bush to bush we closed the distance to eighty yards and I got on the sticks. Bang ... and away he went. What the ...? An idiot could make that shot. He didn't go far and stood behind a bush at 200 yards. Another easy shot and nothing happened. Curiously, whem bumped the bull never ran far before stopping, but he never let us get in range again. Glen figured he was just a very old animal in tough shape. We finally determined it wasn't hit and gave up. Back in the vehicle Glen spotted a herd of hartbeest out on an open plain. They were all cows and calves and on the move as soon as we stopped. Then our tracker spotted a group of seven bulls and a lone wildebeest way off to the left. They were grazing and hadn't seen us yet. It was a difficult long stalk but we were finally within 250 metres when Glen set up the sticks. No more cover to get closer. It seemed to take forever before the big bull in the middle was clear of the others for a shot. I put the Springfield's crosshairs a bit high and centred on his shoulder. This time we heard a hit. The bull should have been knocked over but instead it took off running with the others. I could see through the scope his right front leg was flopping at the knee. What the hell! They didn't go far before stopping. We closed to 100 yards for an easy broadside shot. Nothing! Away they went again. This time I took a shot at the bull on the run and there was another audible hit but he kept going. The group stopped at two hundred metres. Our bull was now obviously very sick. I put the crosshairs in the centre of his boiler room and down he went, finally. We walked up cautiously. Surprisingly, his head was still up. The rest of the bulls stood there letting us get within fifty yards before running. They moved off about 150 yards and never left. Guess they were waiting for granddad to give orders. The bull on the ground was hit in the back just touching shoulder end of backstraps. The previous hit on the run was gut shot. Good grief! Glen finished the poor bugger with a 9mm shot to the heart which was fine with me. My 165 gr Partitions would make a mess at point blank range.
The owner called on the radio: he'd spotted the designated bad boy buffalo with three other bulls on the other end of the property. As quickly as possible our tracker fetched the truck and we loaded the hartbeest. The owner took us to the general area of the buffalo. They were last seen hanging out near the base of a steep koppi (hill) in terrible thick stuff: acacia and blackthorn that will rip clothes at every opportunity. We could hear the bulls walking around us ... and they could hear us too. Round and round we went in that crap. They weren't coming out and, much to my relief, Glen decided to give it up when the sun went behind the koppi. I tell ya, waltzing around in that jungle for an hour or so thirty to forty yards from a group of four one thousand pound animals that could at any moment switch from flight to fight was more than a little unnerving ... even for old Mr. Cool from Canada. Yeah, we had three big guns ... but there were four of them. As we walked back to the truck Glen explained that it's almost unheard of for more than one bull in a bunch to charge. "Almost" didn't ease my anxiety a whole helluva lot.
Back at the ranch complex, while the skinners and our tracker were working on the hartbeest, Glen picked up the lodge's 30-06 and we headed back to the range. Three rounds and my Springfield was shooting all over the paper at 100 yards. The lodge gun shot where it was supposed to. It would have to be my plains game gun for the rest of this trip. That night I was up at 3:00 a.m. tied in knots about that Springfield. What the heck happened? I pulled the gun from the case and checked it over. Hmmm. With butt on the floor, I grabbed the barrel in left hand and fore end in right hand. The barrel wiggled all the way to the action. It had somehow come loose from the bedding job I'd done for the new barrel two days before leaving. Well, I wasn't going to mess with trying to fix it. I came to Africa to hunt not spend a lot of time at the range sorting out mysteries. At least I had an explanation and that was enough to get me back to sleep and rested for day two.
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