Here's my shot at a Christmas story ...

ONE MINUTE BUFFALO

A lot of hunting stories start out with the hunter in a tight situation with an unhappy animal off the barrel of his rifle. Well, mine doesn’t begin quite that way. Our adventure began when the hunting truck broke down for the second time in 6 hours.

We (we being me, my brother and his 19-year-old son) had left South Africa early the morning of day six of a fifteen day hunt for plains game and Cape Buffalo. The first five days had been occupied with collecting a Zebra, a Kudu, a couple of wart hogs and a very nice Gemsbuck (Oryx) by my nephew PJ and Sean, his dad. I was fortunate to take a very big, very old Giraffe with a handgun, but that’s for a later story. Then it was time to depart for Zimbabwe to hunt Buffalo.

Over The Road

Anywho, dawn arrived and we were in the truck and out of camp. Our route would take us across the border at the Messina, SA/ Beitbridge, Zimbabwe crossing, then up to a hunting concession on the Gwai River south of Victoria Falls. There were five of us in the Toyota truck – our Professional Hunter (PH) Peter, yours truly, Sean, PJ and Willi our tracker.

Our first taste of adventure came when the exhaust pipe broke off the header when we were about 10 miles south of Beitbridge. Once the truck was repaired at a muffler shop we proceeded to the border.

I’m not going to give a blow-by-blow of the border crossing fun and games, but suffice it to say a little over 5 hours were eaten up in transit. This and the exhaust pipe repair put us into Zim with about 2 hours until darkness. We still had 500+ km to travel, so it looked like we’d hit camp between midnight – one AM.

This just was not to be. As the sun set, we were about 250 km in-country, and had passed through Gwanda 15 minutes before, when Peter tried to downshift for a hill and the clutch pedal sank gracefully to the floorboards. No clutch. Yes darkness.

Off the Road
Closer examination showed a broken hydraulic line going to the clutch slave cylinder. Not only did we have no clutch, we weren’t going to have any clutch anytime in the near future.

Sitting on the side of the road in darkest Zimbabwe is not a place I really wanted to spend the night. Villagers and other people were appearing out of the darkness and within 20 minutes we had an audience of 10-12 men watching our travails.

A quick consultation and Sean, who had a number of years as a race car driver, jumped into the right, driver’s, seat. Yes, right seat! Zimbabwe was set up like England in that the steering wheel was on the right and driving was on the left. We all pushed while he hit the starter and the truck lit off in first gear. Much jumping aboard then ensued!

He was able to operate the truck, shifting the five-speed transmission without the clutch by double-clutching and matching the transmission speed to engine rpm, until we made it into Bulawayo where we spent a very thankful night at the only Holiday Inn within 500 km in any direction. A small amount of alcohol was consumed later, yessir.

More Truck Games

Come the morning, and after a repair was made, we departed scenic Bulawayo (no employment, no food and zero gasoline in the entire country) and headed towards camp - where the engine proceeded to blow up 10 miles before our destination. It could not be repaired in the field, so there we sat until rescued. Hours later we drug into camp.

What has all this to do with hunting, you may ask? Well, the short version is that between all the fun with the truck and some paperwork problems back in SA, we lost 3 of our 7 days set up for hunting Cape Buffalo. The plan had been that PJ would take a cow buffalo and I’d go after a big bull with my handgun, a Smith & Wesson 500 Magnum shooting 500 grain flat points from Hornady factory loads. With only 4 days to get both animals, we were going to need to be up early, out late and very lucky.

A spare truck was supposed to arrive that morning, but by 8:30 no such luck. Finally, we got out chasing tracks in the afternoon, but everything we saw was at least 2 days old. Back to camp by 7 pm and asleep by 9.

Camp

Let me digress here a moment and describe our camp. It was called “Malindi” and was constructed out of railroad cars arraigned in a “V” around a central fireplace area that was raised up to the lever of the car’s entrances and made out of poured concrete. It was a very beautiful camp and we would have enjoyed it immensely except we never saw it in the light as we were up before daylight and back after dark.

There was a water hole about 125-135 yards in front of the camp where a lot of animals would come to drink, we were told, but about all we saw were a few female Sables and some fauns. The cook said buffalo sometimes watered there, but the only tracks we found were quite old.

The next day, before it was light, we were back tracking tracks and busting a lot of bush. Oh yeah – the bush. The undergrowth and trees in Zimbabwe usually are no higher than 15 feet, with the bush being around 4-5 feet tall, but it contains some of the nastiest thorn bushes known to man. Their needles resemble a #24 hypodermic needle and would probably penetrate more Kevlar than a .44 magnum. Plus they break off and fester in the wound. So we walked and grew lots of nice, round red holes. I have absolutely no idea as to how the PHs do it wearing only shorts.

PJ’s Buffalo

In late afternoon we got on some fresh buffalo tracks and followed them for quite a while through the bush, but the buffalo heard us and kept moving away. We later found out that they were just leading us in a big circle, so it was time to jump into the truck and run down to head ‘em off at the next crossing.

We covered a little less than ½ mile when Peter slammed on the brakes bailed out of the truck and pulled PJ with him. As we followed, he whispered to PJ, “Cow … get your rifle.” PJ pulled his rifle, a Ruger #1 in .458 Lott, out of the padded clamps on the roll bar and ran up to where Peter stood. Peter motioned him forward and pointed down the trail. Seventy-five yards separated them from a cow standing sideways on the trail watching our antics. She wasn’t concerned, just curious.

The Rifle

Before the hunt, I had spent a lot of time with PJ and the Ruger
( Actually, it was my rifle, but upon seeing it for the first time, PJ permanently adopted it.), going over where to place a shot depending on how the buffalo stood and what part of its body could be seen. I told him to smack the buff behind the shoulder and let the bullet do the work.

The .458 Lott is a .404 Jeffery necked up to .458. It is a great deal more powerful than the better-known .458 Winchester Magnum – 5873 ft-lbs of muzzle energy vs. 4622 ft-lbs for the .458 Winchester. Muzzle velocity is up also with the Lott at 2300 fps, and the Winchester coming along at 2040fps. Both shoot a 500-gr. bullet, but the Lott will take the fight out of any dangerous game much better than the Winchester. It do kick a trifle harder, though. The only animal I had ever shot with it was a California wild pig, and that was with a 500-gr. solid. I think the bullet’s still traveling.

The Shot

This cow was almost perpendicular to us, offering a good shoulder shot, but she was starting to get antsy. Peter leaned towards PJ and said something as PJ brought the rifle to his shoulder and flipped off the safety. Booom! The recoil drew him back a step. I heard bullet hit buffalo. The cow found first gear and disappeared into the bush

Here we go again, more tracking, more thorns. Willi, the tracker, found blood on a branch where the cow had stopped to try and wipe off the pain. We tracked. After 5 minutes, or so, we heard the cow moving in the bush about 20 yards ahead of us, but could see nothing. We tracked some more. After a few more minutes, I backed off and returned to the truck so as to have fewer people making noise.

Outcome

My watch said 5:30. The sun dropped below the horizon. The ground, surrounding vegetation and nearby bushes all turned the same shade of gray. Tracking was done for the day. We’d have to return in the morning.

PJ came back to the truck very unhappy with himself. His Kudu had dropped with one shot. His wart hog and Impala did likewise – why hadn’t the buffalo. I reminded him that a Cape Buffalo was a bit tougher than a plains game animal and that my first one had absorbed four .416 hits from my Remington Magnum before becoming steaks and chops. For some reason he wasn’t too interested in war stories right at the moment.

We split up the next morning – me to hunt for a bull and PJ to follow up on his cow. It wasn’t a very good day. I saw exactly nothing and PJ followed tracks for over 3 hours until the blood trail dried up and the cow’s tracks merged with the rest of the heard and disappeared.

Why No Buffalo (we think)

Later, after we had returned to the US, we went over the video of his shot in slow motion. Both shot and impact were clearly visible. The only problem was that the shot was too high and was only a flesh wound that would heal fast and the cow be none the worse for wear.

What happened?

Remember when Peter leaned over to PJ just before he shot? Well, Peter told him to aim for the point of the shoulder, not behind it as we had discussed. PJ errored in thinking a buffalo’s shoulder was like a human’s and up high on the body. It isn’t, it’s down more towards the middle of the torso. He had hit where he aimed, the bullet had blown through, but the cow will see another summer or two. A lesson learned, which I think was good, because he was beginning to think this hunting business was easy. He said (through clenched teeth, I might add) that he’ll be back, and next time bring a Cape Buffalo home.

The End of the Hunt

I spent the next day wandering through the concession trying to pick up some fresh tracks, but to no avail. Darkness intruded, so that was it for the hunt. We were leaving the next morning for Victoria Falls. To add insult to injury, on our way back to camp, we spotted a huge herd of buffalo about 600 yards away over open ground. Too bad! They were fairly smart buffalo and they were in a photograph-only area and could not be hunted. Needless to say, I was not in the best frame of mind when I returned to camp. I spent the evening in my room and skipped dinner. I was pretty graveled because if we hadn’t lost all that time to that bloody piece-of-junk truck, we’d still have days to hunt. Sleep was a long time in coming.

Departure

Six AM came ‘round and up we got. Wasn’t a lot of talking going on this morning until we found we were out of coffee. Now, I can put up with a lot, but no morning coffee was about my limit. Black thoughts!

Time to go. Truck was packed, cameras and suitcases put away, guns in their cases at the bottom of the truck bed. Wasn’t a very happy group of hunters departing camp. Even the trackers were subdued.

One Minute

I was riding shotgun, Sean and PJ in back on the raised seats. Peter sat down and pushed in the clutch; hand on the gearshift.

Then.

Then.

Then!

The cook came running out to the truck, sputtering and shouting!

“Buffalo, buffalo! They come! They are to the water hole.” He pointed over his right shoulder. “They come!”

Out of the truck. Up on the patio. Sure as God made little green frogs, there they were. A herd of about 60 had come to the water hole. They were still in the bush, 300 yards from us, 150 yards from the water. Cows and calves in front, bulls in the back. Little movement. They were checking out the area.

“ Willi, unloadthetruckgettheguns.” My emotions were outpacing my brain and my tongue was caught in the middle. The binoculars were in a case. The binoculars were in my hand, case on the ground. Check out the animals. They were still too bunched up to make out the bulls.

Peter scanned the herd. “There’s some bulls way in the back. They’ll push the cows ‘n’ calves out, then drink last.

The gun cases were open. This was going to be a 125 + yard shot, so the S&W 500 was left behind. I opened the action on the Ruger and fed it a 500-gr. solid. Cranked the scope up to its max – 4 power.

We moved to the front of the patio. I took off my jacket and used it like a sandbag between the gun and table. Peter joined me with his rifle.

“Peter, this is going to be tough. When I shoot, as soon as I shoot, follow me up. If we don’t drop him he’ll disappear into the bush.”

“Ok Tom, but wait until there’s a clear shot.”

One clear shot was all there was going to be. The cows were approaching the water, but milling in tight. Any bulls? Hell, I couldn’t see even one!

My heart finally slowed down enough to where the crosshairs quit bouncing around.

“Tom, look on the far right. There’s a big bull right at the water. He’s got a cow directly in front of him, so wait.” The cow acted like she owned the water hole and didn’t want to leave. ‘He’s going to finish, then turn to go. Wait. Wait until he’s clear the cow.”

The bull finished his drink and turned his rump towards us. He stepped back from the water hole on his way to the bush. The cow in front of him turned and moved to the right. The bull started walking off.

He stopped. Turned to a nearby cow as if to say something. Turned back with a quartering step to the right and stopped. Open! It was going to be a Texas brain shot, but it was the only shot.

He stood still.

I pulled the trigger.

The gun barrel lurched towards the ground! Dead silence.

Did I mention releasing the safety? I thought not. Because I hadn’t. Nice work, Tom!

Ok. Stop. Take a breath. Kick off the safety. Reacquire the sight picture. Same picture – same tail end shot.

The Ruger belched! The bull kicked high into the air and jumped to the side.

“He’s hit,” Peter said. “And hit damn well.”

“Whewwww,” I said.

The bull ran into the herd and they all took off into the brush. They got about 20 yards into the jess and stopped for a short time, then took off. We waited a few minutes before following.

The herd had stopped because the bull had only made it that far before dying. He only went that far on nerves. The bullet entered the left hip, traveled all the way up through the lung and heart and came to a stop just under the hide on the chest. When recovered, it looked like it could have been reloaded and fired again.

The last minute of the last hour of the last day of the hunt.

One minute buffalo!

SIDEBAR – Zimbabwe

Zimbabwe is a landlocked country that gained its independence in 1980. Prior to then It was called Rhodesia. The US State Department does not recommend travel in the country and especially states that the cities can be very dangerous. We originally intended to run straight through the country, only stopping at camp. The truck was a Diesel Toyota and we carried a 55-gallon drum of fuel as there was no gasoline, Diesel or propane available in the entire country. Unemployment is nearing 80% and a country that used to be a net exporter of food is now an importer. The usual cautions prevail; don’t carry or flash any cash or valuables, stay in groups, don’t wander around after dark, stay in well lighted areas, and be careful about people who approach you. You are a walking money bag to them.

During our stay in Zimbabwe, the rate of exchange was 130,000 Zim dollars to one dollar US and rising. When we were in Bulawayo, prices were extremely high. One room for one night at the Holiday Inn was $150 US. Food in the restaurants was likewise very expensive. In our hotel at Victoria Falls, the Kingdom, dinner and drinks were $175. Not bad if steak and a good wine were on the menu, but we were pizza and beer. The crocodile appetizers were good, though.

There was a $20 entrance fee for foreigners at the Falls. Locals were free. Plus, the locals wouldn’t take their own money! That’s right. Even the taxi driver who took us to the airport absolutely refused to take Zim dollars. Plus, he jacked up the fare when we got there. He knew the ticket agent at the airport and we couldn’t check in until our wallets were empty. They did a very professional job of cleaning us out.

Hunting is good, but a lot of the plains game has been snared and turned into bush meat. I can’t blame the villagers, because if I had nothing to eat, I’d set snares myself.

If you want to go hunt there, the buffalo is good, there’s lots of Leopards; Elephants are common. But, be prepared for the situation. Buy travel insurance, buy health insurance, see a travel clinic before you go. Don’t drink the water and don’t swim in the rivers – the crocodiles have enough to eat.

Captions

Africa 1a jpeg. The results of the very last moment of the last hour of the last day of the hunt. I had wanted to use my S&W 500, but the distance required that I use the Ruger .458 Lott.

Africa 2a.jpg One of the less pleasant aspects of the African bush are the wait-a-bit thorns. They are sharp as a hypodermic needle and will penetrate skin just like their steel brothers. The red holes disappear after a couple of weeks – usually.

DSC_0170a.JPG The rooms at Malindi were constructed from old railroad cars. Each had a bedroom and bath. They had been used by Rhodesian Railways back in the 1950s.

DSC_0023a The 500-gr. bullet on the left was recovered from under the hide on the chest of my Cape Buffalo after passing from the left hip all the way through the vitals. Aside from the rifling, it could be loaded and shot again. The massive round on the right is a .22 Long Rifle for comparison.

Bufa.jpg Here’s about what I saw through my scope. The buffalo are at the water hole. They came out of the bush behind them. This photo was pulled off a video camera, the only one we had available when the buffalo came in. How would you like to pick a bull out of this crowd.