Huntinamibia - My Namibian Adventure - All 'Nyati' broke loose!
Although arid Namibia is not typical buffalo country, there are nevertheless good buffalo-hunting possibilities in the more tropical north-east of the country. Here follows a story which contains all the excitement this pursuit can offer.
At the back of the herd is the one we want, but the veld is too open and the wind is wrong. If we want to succeed with this one, we’ll have to be patient. So we wait in our cover behind the apple-leaf tree.
The herd, about 250 strong – mostly cows and calves with some bulls in between – moves closer. The animals are uneasy, but haven’t really become aware of us yet.
Anxiously I watch the bull with the wide-spread horns as he moves around with that swaggering gait of an old buffalo bull. Suddenly he turns towards us and walks to the front of the herd.
I cannot believe our luck – this is too easy. The bull turns sideways and presents his broadside. I tell Ron to wait for the others to clear out behind him. A few moments later they do exactly that. Ron is resting his 416 against the tree and it’s a steady rest – a great bull 35 metres away broadside on. What more could you want and what could possibly go wrong?
I say, “Take him!”
Now, three months later and with weights tied to my knee, I’m working hard to regain the muscle I’ve lost from six weeks of casts and braces and extensive reconstruction of my left knee. It did go wrong and it got close, far too close. But still, I was lucky. It could have been worse, or it could have been the client.
So many years of hunting buffalo, elephant and cats, the charges and close calls and then suddenly the one that gets you. Do you blame anyone or is it just something that happens? The shot was not good; it was a gut shot. We were close to the park border. Neither I nor the trackers spotted him in the quarry bush next to us. We had concentrated too much on the blood spoor leading past the bush. The angle of the charge could have been more favourable. All those usual if’s and why’s!
“Take him!” No reaction from Ron. “Take him!” I repeated. Still no shot. I urged him on, as the cows had now spotted us behind the apple leaf’s trunk and were becoming edgy. The telltale posture of the buffalo, noses up, told me they were going to take off. “Take him! The herd is going to run.”
One calf didn’t like it and turned. The cow followed and fate took its course. I saw the bull turn away and only then the shot rang out. A puff of dust on the gut. The herd thundered off and we stood watching, without a chance of a follow-up shot as the bull merged with the herd.
We watched as the herd rounded an overgrown island about 200 metres away, disappearing behind it. Taking a wide berth, the herd returned to the safety of Mamili National Park. The bull was lagging behind and slowly walked up the bank of the island. The trackers and I took off to try and intercept the bull, so as to prevent him from reaching the park.
When reaching the island we ran around it, keeping clear all the time. But for the dust of the disappearing herd, nothing was to be seen on the other side. As we were upwind from the island, we decided to circle it again to get down wind. Keeping clear, we proceeded to where we had seen the bull disappearing amongst the bushes of the island.
Now things happened within seconds of each other. The client was way back with Claud, the cameraman, while we proceeded on the spoor. On my left were a big leadwood tree and a glade of about 15 metres, on my right our quarry in some buffalo thorn. Not thick, impenetrable stuff, just bush. The trackers were behind me scanning for the spoor when I spotted the big saucer-plate spoor of the bull leading through this opening and heading in the direction the herd had taken. There were some spots of gut juice and blood lying wet in the dust.
I called the trackers, and at that moment all ‘Nyati’ broke loose.
The quarry bush erupted with breaking branches and much thrashing. The trackers took off, and the bull came out, heading for them.
He was broadside to me as I swung the 470 up. His head was covered by the horns, so I could not aim at the head – it would have to be a shoulder shot. He was perhaps ten paces away when I fired. The shot did not even check his stride. As it struck, he turned towards me. By now he was a mere five paces away. The second barrel had to be a brain shot, but as I pulled the trigger, he dropped his head and the bullet went into his neck and chest.
I had a sickening feeling as I realised that he hadn’t dropped – the moment of truth had arrived.
He hit me in the right side, his horn tip catching me on the hamstring. He tossed me up and I went over his back and landed hard. I still had my rifle, and was therefore the only one who could stop him. The two empty cases ejected and I plunked two new ones in and closed the action, all the while getting up to face the buffalo. But he was quicker. He hit me on the left as I got up, taking the full blow just above the knee. He hooked me up, locking my leg in his horns. I knew I had to hold on and not let him get me on the ground. Because of his tossing about, my leg came loose and I let go, rolling off his back.
I hit the ground, still holding my 470, knowing that it had to end now. The two shots sounded as one, as 1 000 grains of Barnes monolithic stopped the buffalo. He went down and it was over. Claud had dropped the video camera. He had the 416 in his hands and put another shot into him to make sure.
My leg was flopping around and the pain was excruciating. There was blood everywhere, mine or the bull’s, it didn’t matter. It was over and maybe, after all, we would be able to hunt another day.
We took pictures and loaded the bull on the vehicle, which seemed to take forever. There were no hospitals or doctors around, so I had to travel the 170 kilometres of dirt road to Katima Mulilo. There the doctor assured me that everything was fine and that all I needed was painkillers, although I kept wondering why I couldn’t stand on my leg. My knee was swelling and appeared very loose at the joint.
I flew Ron out to Vic Falls the next morning. The Cessna 182 behaved and we made the trip short. I then decided that a second opinion was necessary and flew down to Windhoek. I had to strap my leg to be able to work the rudders for one of those cross-wind landings at Eros Airport.
Without hesitation the orthopaedic surgeon booked me into surgery. After four hours I had to wonder what I needed the painkillers for.
Privileged is the way I see it now. You get to face that moment of truth, where it is only you and him, the impact of two bodies, the strength, raw power and rage. Having lived through all of it, you now know that however experienced you are, a hunt can go very wrong, even if everything seems to be perfect. It was pure mercy to have survived it, and to be able to pick up that 470 and hit the spoor of the Big Ones again. by John Wambach
