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Hunting the king's game.

The facilities in the main camp were excellent. Chef Vanja spoiled us with absolutely delicious food 3 times a day. Especially Vanja's desserts were of the best quality. We eventually found out that dessert for both lunch and dinner could be a bit excessive. The hottest hours after lunch were spent in the pool.

The hunting pressure was a little lower with both buffalo, eland and hyena in the salt, but we had to go out and have a look in the best areas for plains game. In Niassa, there are a number of species, which were a bit interesting. Niassa wildebeest, Johnson's impala and Bohm's zebra are all species that are mostly only found in the north of Mozambique.
We looked around the terrain without any particular plan. I figured if we came across a good Bohm's Zebra, I'd give it a try. Over the next couple of days we saw quite a few zebra, but nothing shootable. Mosa had a last place on his mind, so we headed for a valley we had not been in before.

We drove over a ridge before we reached the valley Mosa wanted to show us. We had just started the descent, when Mosa pointed energetically into a forest tap. Zebra? I looked at Mosa. "Pala pala," was the reply. Pala pala is the local name for sable. This far north in the country, there is the special Roosevelt Sable. An entourage of 7 stately sable bulls paraded past us. One prettier than the other. Finally, the Eighth Sable appeared! Mosa and Leo's jaws dropped when they saw it. It was both larger in body, and had horns that really stuck out compared to the others. All were great animals in trophy class, but the last one was absolutely incredible. "Atirah?" Aren't you going to shoot it, Mosa wondered?
Sable was actually over my budget so I shook my head. "Too expensive". Mosa looked worried. Should I really let this specimen go?
After studying the beautiful bulls for a while, we drove on. The trackers chatted excitedly together in their local language. It was clear that they couldn't understand that I wasn't supposed to hunt that sable.

We drove for maybe 5 minutes, when I couldn't stand it anymore. The palm of the hand slammed into the roof of the car. The usual sign for stop. Leo stopped and wondered if something was wrong. "Let's forget the bloody zebra, I want to hunt that sable!" Mosa, who only speaks Portuguese and his local language, looked at us. I gave my first order in broken Portuguese: “Atirah pala pala! Arma grande!” We're going to shoot sable, send me the big rifle!” Mosa's face broke into a broad grin, and he pulled the 416 Rigby out of the case.

The wind was favourable, so we moved back towards the place where we had last seen the sabers. They hadn't gone that far. Up towards the top of the ridge there was a eddy in the wind, so we had to make a loop around the herd of sables. Eventually we started getting closer to the animals. Now we had to find the big guy again. All the bulls were certainly shootable, but I would like to have the best of them.
The sable herd was snoozing in a cluster of trees. It began to get so late in the morning that the heat was oppressive, and the animals did not move unless it was necessary. In the end we got into the 120m hold. The wind started to change again, so we had no chance to get any closer. There was a lot of undergrowth, so finding an opening to trick a bullet up to the Sables was not easy.
After much use of binoculars, we found what looked like a clear firing range. Leo set up the firing pins and I left with the CZ. It took a bit of finesse before I could finally release the shot. I never saw the saber fall, but heard Leo's jubilant roar: "You dropped him like a sack of potatoes!" What I had seen, however, were twigs flying in a couple of places in the front line of sight, and an empty shell from the 416 Rigbyen hit Maxwell, while I hastily took charge and focused on the fallen saber again. There was no danger, however, the sable bull would never rise again.
We walked towards the fallen bull, and eventually it dawned on us how huge it actually was. Leo gripped the horn bases, and let his fists follow the horn towards the tip. "This bull is out of this world!"

I proclaimed; "Now I am done hunting on this trip." One should quit when on top.
In earlier times, sable was royal game, which only the king could hunt. It was associated with the death penalty if one was caught hunting sable. My sable was truly of royal quality. Later it was measured to have horns of 45 and 45.5 inches, with bases of 10 inches. It probably shrinks somewhat during the dry season, but it still ends up very high on SCI's trophy list.

Edited by maral (13/02/24 08:34 AM)

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