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NitroX kindly invited me to post this narrative of my first hunt in Africa.

Namibia 2007 Hunt Report

Dates: July 15-28, 2007

Country: Namibia

Areas: Central (Windhoek) and Kalahari Desert

Outfitter: Ndumo Hunting Safaris
http://www.huntingsafaris.net

PH: Karl Stumpfe

Animals Taken: Kudu, gemsbok, springbok, eland, hartebeest, zebra, warthog

Other Animals Seen: Waterbuck, giraffe, ostrich, cheetah, blesbok, steenbok, klipspringer, duiker

Introduction

Just one year ago the thought of hunting in Africa would not have entered my mind. I came to hunting late in life because my parents, who had lived through or fought in three wars, had had enough of guns, so kept the children away from them – especially as I had shown an unhealthy interest in my father’s Colt .45 sidearm as a toddler. Oddly enough, what made my first African hunt possible was a “tree-hugger” friend, who clearly did not know what she was unleashing when she handed me a copy of Life’s Little Instruction Book, which, along with its predictable admonitions, such as “Be kinder than necessary” and “Never give up on anybody – miracles happen every day”, suggested that I learn to handle a pistol and rifle safely (#148)! That was all the prompting I needed to take a hunter safety course, which naturally led to hunting dove, waterfowl, upland game, whitetail deer…. I was finally in my element.

After exploring most of the local (Maryland) possibilities for hunting I set my sights on an elk hunt in the western United States, but the stiff price tag initially dampened my enthusiasm. Then I encountered an online hunting article which pointed out that an African hunt was far less expensive and more exotic in the bargain. From there it was a matter of a few Google searches before I discovered a treasure trove of information out on the Internet.

I sifted through the vast amount of information on the Internet and concluded that, for a first trip to Africa, I would hunt plains game in Namibia. The matter of choosing an outfitter was a happy dilemma, as there were so many highly recommended operations in that country, but in the end, I chose Karl Stumpfe (Ndumo on NitroExpress forums) of Ndumo Hunting Safaris, which offers hunts in South Africa, Namibia, and Zimbabwe. He responded promptly to e-mail and provided detailed answers to my numerous questions. The package that he proposed (10-day hunt for kudu, gemsbok, red hartebeest, two springbok, and warthog, with optional eland and zebra) was exceptional, and his references were uniformly enthusiastic about his abilities. The clincher was reading Karl’s posts on NitroExpress and elsewhere, which I found authoritative but self-effacing. As my account relates below, Karl exceeded all my high expectations.

Preparations

As many have observed, preparing for an African safari is half the fun. Once I booked the hunt with Ndumo a scant seven months before leaving, I got right to work with my preparations. Interestingly, I probably spent more time compiling and revising To Do and Packing lists than actually doing or procuring what was on the lists. A good chunk of my computer memory is filled with virtually daily revisions!

Always on the lookout for an excuse to get another gun, I decided that eland warranted a heavy caliber rifle so I cashed in some birthday gift IOU’s from my wife and bought a Ruger M77 RSM bolt-action in .375 H&H. For the rest of the lighter species I was planning to take my Ruger M77 in .308 Win, but I came across a friend’s “pre-64” Winchester M70 Supergrade with BOSS in .30-06 for sale at his gunshop. A session at the range confirmed that the rifle shot very accurately, and it was beautifully made, so I snapped it up before my friend could change his mind.

Another friend, who had hunted before in Namibia, recommended Barnes Triple-shock X-bullets, as did Karl, so I took mostly Barnes loads but also some Nosler Partitions for both rifles.

Airline bookings were handled ably by Kathi Klimes, who thoughtfully found comfortable seats even on a SAA Airbus.

The Trip

Sunday, July 15th to Monday, July 16th

We drove from Baltimore to Dulles Airport, where my wife and two little boys dropped me off at the departures area; I re-assured my sons that Dad had a good chance of returning alive, all those bedtime stories from Death in the Long Grass notwithstanding!

The personnel at the SAA counter never asked to see my guns or ammunition, only requiring me to sign a declaration that the guns were unloaded and that I was carrying less than 5 kg of ammunition. Over at the TSA section, they only searched my duffle bag and never asked me to unlock my Tuffpak. (In fact, no airline or security official in the US or Namibia ever set eyes on my guns or ammunition during the entire trip.)

At the boarding gate area I met hoppdoc from Alabama, with whom I had exchanged e-mail. He was headed to Namibia also, to hunt with a different outfitter. To our delight we discovered that Kathi had booked adjacent seats for us behind a bulkhead, so we settled in to get to know one another. It was refreshing to meet a fellow man of medicine who was a keen hunter and a confirmed gun nut because in Baltimore that sort of beast is a rarity. Naturally, we spent much of our 15-hour flight chatting about hunting and guns; but we also talked about food, travel, medicine, theology (including the finer points of transubstantiation)…. Riding with hoppdoc made the hours fly by. A good man – or, I should say, a good ol’ boy!

Upon our arrival in Johannesburg hoppdoc was whisked away by a meet-and-greet service while I slogged through international transfers on my own. A short flight on a smaller plane took us to Windhoek’s airport, where we claimed out luggage without difficulty and proceeded to the firearms clearing office. The two inspectors there methodically checked the serial numbers of all the guns of the five hunters ahead of me, but when it came my turn (the last traveler of the evening) they took my word for it that the guns matched my declaration. Perhaps it was because one of the officers discovered that his uncle, a pharmacist, worked in my home town (regrettably I did not know him!). I cast about in my luggage for something to express my thanks. All I could find close at hand were Beanie Babies, that I had brought for the local children, so I urged them to take a few for their own kids, which they did gladly.

Out in the empty arrivals area, Karl, my PH, was waiting patiently for me. We loaded my gear into his truck and headed toward Windhoek proper, which is 45 km from the airport. The terrain in the evening light reminded me a lot of the American Southwest, except for the steenbok along the road. Once in Klein Windhoek I was struck by the order and cleanliness of the place; I realized that I had been unconsciously expecting the only other Africa I knew: Nigeria, where I had worked in medical missions. Karl observed that Namibia is one of the most sparsely populated and politically stable countries in sub-Saharan Africa.

We dropped off my gear at Casa Piccolo, a smart little pension, before heading to the renowned Joe’s Beerhouse for dinner. It was an active place for a Monday evening, filled mostly with out-of-towners. Karl had “Bushman Sosatie”, which featured meat of ostrich, crocodile, zebra, kudu, and chicken, while I had a gemsbok filet with sauerkraut and the first of the many Tafel beers I put away in Namibia.

Tuesday, July 17th

Just as I was returning from my breakfast at the pension Karl pulled up in the trusty Toyota Land Cruiser, which was to serve us so well in the coming weeks. While I brought out my gear the proprietress of the pension admired the previous client’s cheetah, that Karl had in the truck’s bed for delivery to the taxidermist. After checkout we drove to Trophäendienste Taxidermy in the outskirts of town to drop off the cheetah. Karl gave me a tour of the facility. Then, while Karl took care of other business, I chatted with the staff in my high-school German and scouted out some potential gifts for purchase at the end of the hunt.

Then a couple more stops to pick up an extra trophy permit for Hartmann’s zebra and to visit the NAPHA (Namibia Professional Hunting Association) office to say hello before setting off for a property of about 6000 hectares (1 hectare = 2.47 acres), where we would stay a few days to hunt kudu, warthog, and zebra. The terrain was very hilly, with variable amounts of low brush and much grass of an interesting yellow-green color. The lodge compound was set on the summit of a high hill with a fine view of the surrounding land. There was a large cabin with a dining room, bar, and common area, as well as two separate cabins with a kitchen and two bedrooms and bathrooms apiece. A generator provided electricity during the day and evening, while natural gas powered the refrigerator/freezers. All was very comfortable.

The first order of business was to drive to a dry gully to sight in the rifles. One of our trackers, Simon, set up a target 100 yards away, and I confirmed that both rifles had retained their zeros. As we drove around to get me acquainted with the property I was amazed at what that Land Cruiser could do. Clad with less armor than most suburban American Land Rovers with the anti-rhinoceros package, this truck could go up and down impossible grades, oblivious to bushes, small trees, thorns, rocks, and smaller warthog holes. I developed a healthy respect for those 17-ply Yokohama Super Hajari tires, which bore us safely through highlands bush, in Kalahari sand, and over unpaved highways.

On that drive we encountered herds of gemsbok, a number of kudu cows and immature bulls, some warthogs in the distance, a klipspringer, and a variety of birds (francolin, guinea fowl, Egyptian geese). Karl checked some leopard baits that he had set out and found evidence of recent feeding.

We returned to the compound where we enjoyed a delicious hartebeest stroganoff over rice, with salad and home-baked bread, which Karl desecrated with Bovril. Two resident meerkats scampered about, picking up scraps from the floor.

I spent the siesta catching up on my journal entries and sorting through my gear so that I would not be juggling a bunch of loose equipment while stalking. Over the subsequent days I settled on carrying only the bare essentials: ammo in belt wallet, camera in shorts cargo pocket, rangefinder in vest pocket, binoculars on chest harness (this last had to be modified subsequently in the Kalahari, where we had to slither around on our bellies).

Later in the afternoon we set off with our tracker/skinners, Simon and Ricardo, to hunt for kudu and warthog. Again, we encountered more gemsbok, elusive warthogs, and young kudu. Finally, we spotted across a narrow valley a pair of kudu bulls. Karl stopped the truck to glass and found the one to have only mediocre horns and the other to have widely-spaced horns with great potential, so we prepared to move on, when Karl spotted another, older bull nearby bearing a good set of widely angled horns. We quickly drove on, stopping out of view behind a hill; then we commenced stalking on foot, traversing the side of a rocky hill. The kudu were looking in our direction, but they did not run, perhaps because they could not see us well, obscured as we were in the hill’s shadow cast by the late afternoon sun.

At 220 yards Karl set up the sticks as the bulls turned to leave. Karl whistled to turn the older bull, which obligingly presented his left side toward me – but behind a bush! Soon enough he meandered from behind the bush, and I took my shot (.30-06, 180 gr Barnes TSX). The bullet hit somewhat anterior in the left shoulder. He turned to run but stumbled because of his wound. In my haste I sent my next shot low and hit his right foreleg, not killing him, but effectively immobilizing him. Ricardo and I rushed across the shallow valley to finish the matter while Karl and Simon went to fetch the truck.

My first African trophy was beautiful: perhaps not the biggest specimen in the world, but a fine, old bull with wide, deeply curled horns rubbed white at the tips and bases. Karl manhandled the truck to where the kudu fell, and as the sun approached the horizon we arranged the kudu for the all-important photographs. There I discovered that Karl possesses the sensibilities of an artiste when it comes to photography, arranging the animal and hunter just so and contorting himself to capture just the right angle and lighting. Later, back at the lodge, he showed me an impressive Powerpoint presentation on trophy photography, which he had prepared for NAPHA. The pictures accompanying this hunt report were taken with my little point-and-shoot (Canon Powershot A540, 6 MP); the DVD with the ones taken with Karl’s better camera is on its way.

Once the pictures were done Simon and Ricardo set to work eviscerating the animal. I was amazed at the size of the stomach and amount of foliage it held. We winched the animal onto the truck and drove back to the lodge, checking a few more leopard baits along the way. We dropped off Simon and Ricardo at the skinning shed, which was a little distance from the lodge proper, which I thought was too bad at the time, as I had hoped to watch them at work (I was to see plenty in the following days, however).

After a shower and some aperitifs we applied ourselves to some roast chicken and fries. Our conversation over dinner ran to a variety of topics, including just what about bullets kills an animal. There are well-known advocates of energy transfer and momentum, but Karl is a believer in full penetration and large exit wounds for efficient bleeding. I had always been puzzled that the energy/momentum of a bullet that can kill a buffalo or elephant kicks back at the hunter without much harm beyond a sore shoulder, and Karl’s argument accorded well with my experience with penetrating trauma (thanks to Baltimore’s active knife and gun club), that, aside from a well-placed shot to the central nervous system, death comes most quickly from heavy bleeding.

As it was getting late Karl went to turn off the generator while I made some final triumphant entries in my journal by flashlight. I drifted off to sleep trying to figure out how a refrigerator compressor runs on natural gas.

Wednesday, July 18th

After a light breakfast of bread, fried eggs, and wildebeest boerwors (sausage) we headed about 30 minutes west to another property of 8000 hectares to look for zebra and warthogs; there had been some recent sightings, but on this windy morning there was nothing but gemsbok, springbok, ostrich, and baboons. Although I had gemsbok and springbok on my list, Karl wanted me to take them in the Kalahari, where there were better specimens.

On the drive back to the lodge we had a chance to chat about books and history. We passed some historic ruins about 60 km west of Windhoek, where a German tourist was recently killed by robbers.

After lunch and a siesta we drove around the property surrounding the lodge compound, where zebra had recently been seen. We saw exceptional young kudu bulls, gemsbok, waterbuck, and even giraffes, but not one zebra. I was not overly concerned, as a pace of one trophy taken every other day would be just about right for the six animals originally on my list.

Dinner featured pasta with gemsbok meat sauce and fresh-baked bread. The accompanying South African red wine was quite good. It was becoming clear that I was not going to lose any weight on this trip! After dinner, the talk flowed easily, despite the fact that there were only two of us, as we discovered a large number of shared interests.

Thursday, July 19th

We made an early start for an 8000-hectare property about an hour west of the lodge. This farm belonged to an old friend of Karl’s from his hell-raising university days. Long drives on this hunt were perhaps as interesting as the actual hunting itself since we never lacked interesting topics to discuss. On this ride I learned about PH qualifications/examinations (one especially troublesome exam question came out of an article that Karl had written in Magnum magazine, and he narrowly escaped lynching by the irate candidates), and we discussed the controversies surrounding global warming (we were both concerned about the scientific merit of the computer models incriminating CO2).

The farm’s residential complex turned out to be a charming place, the houses painted in imperial Austrian yellow with bright green roofs. True to script, the farmer and his father-in-law (a retired physician visiting from South Africa) invited us into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and biscuits and asked for the news from America. After tidying up (the ladies were in Windhoek visiting the children at school) we all climbed aboard the truck: the farmer and the doctor in the cab; Karl and I outside with Simon and Ricardo. The farmer invited me to shoot on sight any pests we might encounter, be they jackals, baboons, cheetah, or leopard (!).

Not long after we started, we spotted a small herd of zebra across a valley. We maneuvered the truck downwind and out of sight before getting out to stalk. While they were still about 400 yards away the zebra passed over into an adjacent park, so we abandoned the stalk.

We resumed our search. As we drove in a dried riverbed we saw another group of zebra traversing a hill several hundred yards away. We got out and made our way to a low rise 170 yards across a shallow valley from the animals. Through the binoculars we could make out a mixed group of foals, mares, and at least two stallions, one in the lead and one in the rear. Karl set up the sticks and advised a shot on the lead stallion, which was moving to the left directly across from us. In my excitement my first shot missed! The stallion turned to look our way just as I was loosing my second shot, which entered the right anterior chest and perforated the right lung and liver. This turned him again to our left. Since he continued to walk, I shot once more, breaking both shoulders and perforating the major blood vessels to the head/forelimbs. He dropped, dead. The other zebra were reluctant to leave and retreated only as we approached up the rocky hill. Even then, they lingered close by.

The hill where the zebra lay was so steep that it was impossible to right the animal for conventional pictures; we took some photographs anyway with the zebra in avoidably awkward positions. The grade was also going to present some problems with hauling the zebra out, as the truck could not be brought close to the carcass. Because I wanted the skin as a flat rug we could not immediately cut the zebra into pieces, so, after eviscerating the animal, Karl and the skinners set to work to skin the entire zebra right there on the hill. The farmer was perhaps more used to the hills on his property because he thought nothing of driving the truck over loose rocks to the top of the hill (no mean feat itself) and then backing it down the steep grade toward the zebra!

We still had to carry the zebra by means of steel fenceposts passed through the tendons of each leg the final 15 yards or so to the truck. As Karl winched the zebra onto the bed the truck seemed to rise ominously off the front wheels. The farmer drove the load back up to the summit, while Karl and I hiked out (as in sailing) from the uphill side of the truck as counterweight, ready to leap off if the truck started to roll. We got the truck and load down to the riverbed without incident and paused under the shade of an ancient camel-thorn tree for a cool drink. I regretted that I could not pour a well-deserved Tafel down the Land Cruiser’s fuel pipe.

Back at the farm we removed the chest organs to see exactly what the Barnes bullets had done. I marveled at the destruction wrought by an expanding .30 bullet and reckoned that there would be a lot less trauma surgery in Baltimore if handgun cartridges loaded with Barnes bullets were widely available in the ‘hood.

For lunch the farmer brought out a disreputable-looking telescoping metal drum, which turned out to be a portable grill much favored in years past for the southern African equivalent of tailgating at rugby matches. He grilled some gemsbok wors to accompany the sandwiches that we had brought for lunch. After a leisurely visit we said our good-byes and headed back to the lodge with the zebra skin.

Friday, July 20th

We packed up and left for the Kalahari. On the way we dropped off the kudu and zebra horns/hides at Trophäendienste, where I bought some postcards, which the staff kindly posted for me (they arrived in the US three weeks later). Then we had a late breakfast at a grocery store food court in town, where Karl failed to convince me to try a raw beef/egg concoction spread on a roll. Once stocked up on biltong and wors for the long (5 hour) drive we headed off for the desert.

About 10 km south of Windhoek we passed Heroes Acre, a hillside memorial to the fighters who died during the SWAPO war, featuring an 8 m tall bronze statue of the Unkown Soldier, clutching an AK-47 and about to lob a grenade; this figure has an uncanny resemblance to Sam Nujoma, first president of SWAPO and, subsequently, of Namibia. This US$10 million complex was thoughtfully built by the North Koreans.

The ride was a chance for me to learn the details of the business of trophy hunting, including breeding of desirable stock. I also discovered that Karl is a prolific writer of hunting/reloading articles found most often in Magnum hunting magazine but also encountered in the better South African ladies’ magazines! And what is a road-trip without music? Karl tried hard to teach me the words to German Southwest Africa’s unofficial anthem, Südwest-Lied, as interpreted by that German icon, Heino.

When I was a kid in school we watched a film about Bushmen of the Kalahari who hunted a giraffe in an archetypal barren, sandy desert. The part of the Kalahari where we hunted, at least, abounded in low brush and trees growing out of the fine, reddish sand. The property where we stayed (6000 hectares) was devoted to hunting and was one of several owned by a farmer, who, as it happened, was hunting at one of his adjacent farms with extended family and guests.

The evening was spent getting to know the other guests over drinks and dinner at the main farmhouse. During our several days in the Kalahari I was treated like part of the family, often taking my meals with the others. It was an unexpected and much appreciated “cultural” bonus to the hunting trip. We finally tore ourselves away for the 10-minute drive to our guesthouse on the hunting property so that we could get some sleep before an early start. Driving along the sand track on deflated tires in the absolutely silent night we saw numerous springbok, eland, and duikers – an abundance that in the coming days we found characterized the entire property.

Saturday,July 21st

An action-packed day!

After an early breakfast at the farmhouse we set off with Ricardo and David (from this farm) to hunt for gemsbok and springbok. Almost immediately we spotted in the distance a likely group of a dozen gemsbok with some big bulls. We gave chase on foot for the next four hours, playing hide-and-seek over the dunes. We would cautiously crest a dune to find the gemsbok watching us intently from several hundred yards away; they would then disappear over the next dune or behind a screen of trees for another round.

Along the way we chanced upon a very ill ewe with her two lambs. It took some chasing to catch the lambs, and finally the ewe and the hobbled lambs went into the bed of the truck, which David brought up, while we continued the stalk.

Finally, by crawling on our bellies, we closed the distance to about 300 yards; the gemsbok appeared less alarmed by our pursuit. I finally shot at a thick-horned bull, which arched its back, ran a short distance, and collapsed. We ran up the spot, but no gemsbok! Soon Ricardo found the bloodspoor and was following it, when, in the distance, the gemsbok lurched up and began to run again. I asked Karl to have a shot at the running target, and he hit the right elbow with a snap off-hand shot, immobilizing it enough for me to come up and finish with a shot to the chest.

The bull was a fine specimen – “left-handed”, judging by the greater wear on the left horn. My original shot was somewhat far back, hitting the liver. After the photographs Ricardo and David eviscerated the gemsbok (and the ewe, which had died). We all ate some sandwiches and took a well-deserved siesta.

Back at the farm, the butchering shed was active with another gemsbok and seven springbok. The successful first-time hunters in the other party had already had their initiation rites, with blood smeared on their faces, bites of liver, and caps made from the omentum (intra-abdominal fatty “apron”). We dropped of my gemsbok and set off again for springbok.

I was keen to shoot virtually every springbok I saw, they all seemed such beautiful specimens, but Karl staid my hand for better ones. Before long we found one that satisfied even Karl, and I took a very handsome buck with an unusual sweep to its horns.

We were equally discriminating for the second springbok. This very nice buck with long, shapely horns almost escaped us when I shot a springbok that we both mistook for the intended one in the tall grass. Karl graciously offered me to let me take a third animal, so I took my final shot at 120 yards to take the last animal. The first and third springbok were fine specimens, and the second was not too shabby either.

After a quick shower we headed to a dune with a scenic view, where the owner had built a permanent pavilion for just such a braai as we had that evening with all the guests and some other meat hunters from a neighboring farm. Aside from the Namibians, there were mostly other Afrikaners, with a few “English”, from South Africa. Another thoroughly enjoyable “cultural” experience.

Sunday, July 22nd

This day I was after eland, which I had chosen to add to my trophy list. All the animals so far had been taken with the .30-06, but I was bound and determined to use that brick of a .375 H&H, which I had lugged all the way to Africa, and here was a good excuse.

Soon after we took pictures of the post marking where the borders of Namibia, Botswana, and South Africa converge (I wanted to take a picture of me with a foot or hand in each country, but the barbed wire prevented that), David spotted a group of seven eland with a good bull among them. We quickly started to stalk on foot. Karl had warned me that eland are extremely wary, and, once spooked, will run off at a trot, which these huge beasts can maintain all day. They generally do not pause and look around, so following them on foot, especially in wide open spaces, is difficult. And so it turned out to be. The herd quickly outdistanced us, so we abandoned the stalk.

As we drove around we spotted a kudu cow and calf, which did not flee as we approached. The reason was another calf which had entangled its ankles in the top wire of a fence it had tried to jump. The wire had dug into the thin flesh above the hooves, from which the poor animal’s weight was suspended. We cut down the weakened calf by dividing the fence wire and rehydrated her from my hat filled with water from the modified beer keg on the truck. We carried her into some shade, and Karl sprayed the wounds with a bottle from his first-aid kit. When we checked later in the afternoon, the calf had disappeared, presumably with her mother, as there was no sign of violence. I asked Karl what that miraculous stuff in the bottle was. He replied it was a German version of WD-40, which was well known for its restorative effects!

We continued to look around and finally found a group of four eland, among them two big bulls. Once we managed to approach to about 250 yards away I took an oblique shot at the largest bull’s right chest. The single bullet traveled through the lung and the main right cardiac chamber and lodged in the opposite shoulder. He coughed up some blood and dropped, dead. He was a magnificent animal.

We dropped off the eland at the butchering shed and joined the company for another hearty meal, after which most of the weekend guests departed for home. The farmer and his cousin, a SAA pilot who was staying on for a while, invited us to have a look at pictures from a trip to the Sossusvlei on the west coast and an aerial circumnavigation in a new Air Commander picked up from the manufacturer for the farmer’s air charter company.

Back at our guesthouse I showered to get the sand and kudu-snot out of my hair (recall the water in my hat), then we sat around the fire enjoying the sunset and the profound silence of the desert. Soon the farmer, his wife, and grandson arrived to deliver our dinner of homemade smoked oyster/olive pizza. They joined us for a quick drink around the fire and then left us to our dinner.

Monday, July 23rd

We took our leave of the kind farmer and his wife with promises to visit again and headed to Gochas, a town perhaps a quarter of the way back to Windhoek. We dropped off our gear at a guesthouse and headed to a nearby farm, where there were said to be some good Hartmann’s zebra.

The farmer drove our truck methodically across the plateaux, which characterize this part of the country, while Karl and I scanned the flats and ravines for zebra. From time to time we alighted at the edge of a plateau to glass the land below. It was as we approached one such precipice when Karl tapped on the cabin roof for the driver to back up quickly: he had just seen a trio of zebra on the plain below, 180 yards away. With the truck backed out of sight we jumped down, crept the few steps to the edge, and immediately saw the zebras – one a fine, big stallion – which had not moved but were looking up at us. The big stallion stood with his left side presented to us like a picture out of The Perfect Shot, so I did my part and replied with a textbook shot square into his left shoulder; we heard the thud and saw the dust fly. The zebra moved several steps, as if unhurt, so I placed another shot at the base of the neck, which dropped him where he stood.

We were very pleased with the stallion, whose skinned, dressed carcass later weighed in at 217 kg. We dropped him off at the slaughtering facility in Gochas, where we found a huge pile of gemsbok with slit throats dispatched by a group of South African biltong-hunters. Karl offered to take me out after lunch for another “cultural experience” – to the dunes where the biltong-hunters were relaxing after a morning of harvesting meat.

This group of fourteen men had hired a luxury coach bus and traveled from South Africa to the Namibian Kalahari accompanied by a mobile meat locker and a staggering amount of alcohol. They evidently hunted in the mornings from culling vehicles, then had a nice braai for the rest of the day under a tree among the dunes. They were a friendly lot and welcomed us just in time for an initiation ceremony for one of their number, who had taken his first gemsbok.

This fortunate fellow was made to don a vest and cap cut from the gemsbok’s stomach and then to lie down in a trench in the sand, where he enjoyed chunks of fresh liver washed down with gulps of whiskey.
Having finished the ceremony for their friend, the biltong-hunters looked with interest in my direction when they discovered that I was newly blooded myself, but Karl regretfully informed them that my hunt package did not include such extras, and diverted their attention to the alcohol that still needed drinking.

The afternoon’s entertainment was rounded out with a comedy skit featuring impersonations of a bus, followed by bawdy jokes told serially in English, Afrikaans, and Xhosa.

Tuesday, July 24th

We drove four hours back to Windhoek, where we dropped off the trophies from the Kalahari at Trophäendienste before heading to the last place where I would be hunting, a permanent tented camp on a property located about 30 minutes northeast of Windhoek. On the way we passed the New State House complex being built by – you guessed it, the North Koreans – at an estimated cost of US$ 75-100 million. I was hoping to see some North Korean construction workers and perhaps even chat with them as my father’s ancestral home is in northern Korea. As it turned out there was no visible work being done outside, and there was an elaborate fence surrounding the perimeter of the huge compound.

This last hunting property was about the size of the others, but the brush was generally higher. The camp comprised five tents set on the shores of a (half-dried) lake. Each tent had a patio in front and a permanent structure just behind containing a small kitchen, a shower, and a toilet.

We would be sharing the camp with the owner’s son, a master guide, who had three hunting clients from Alaska. We found them sighting in the single rifle that had arrived with them (the other rifles and much luggage went missing for days) as well as a loaner rifle. The farm owner treated us all to a nice braai up at the farmhouse, and we spent much of the evening swapping tales.

Wednesday, July 25th

Restored circulation to the body after a chilly night with a nice hot shower and set off to hunt red hartebeest and warthog.

After a few unsuccessful stalks on hartebeest we followed a likely bull to a range of 280 yards. My shot hit, but it was not immediately obvious to me where. But as the bull turned to run there was copious blood visible on his hindquarters. To my chagrin, he ran off over the crest of a hill without a hint of a limp. We searched the area beyond the hill without success, so returned to where he was hit and followed the bloodspoor for 200-300 yards before losing it. We cast about far and wide, looking for the animal or more bloodspoor, but without success. The rest of the afternoon and evening was occupied in looking for that bull, passing up other hartebeest and warthogs, because we suspected that if we did not find him soon we never would. We saw no further trace of him, and my only consolation was that the quickly stopped bleeding and unimpaired mobility suggested a non-serious wound.

Retired to camp for a shower and then refreshments around the fire. That evening there were two others hunters in the camp: a Dane and a local from Windhoek, who had been meat hunting. The Dane let us shoot his silenced .25-06. The Alaskans still had not received their luggage. Had a nice chat with the Dane about world events in general and northern European politics in particular.

Thursday, July 26th

Fortified with a big breakfast Karl and I set out for a new start; I chose to go for another hartebeest and a warthog. Briefly, we made several long stalks on hartebeest. They were painstaking affairs, as Karl always took care to assess trophy quality from front and side. He would not let me shoot at any old hartebeest, but I did eventually take two shots, at 280 yards and 100 yards, and missed both times! I seemed to be shooting left and high. Could it be the tall brush, or the gusty wind? I was sure that the riflescope had gone out of alignment; we would check at the range in the morning!

Back at the camp we learned that one of the Alaskans had got a hartebeest, but still no luggage. We enjoyed a meal of rice with putjie – a stew of meat and vegetables prepared in a traditional cast-iron, three-legged pot over an open fire. It was a real hit served with “Mrs. Ball’s original recipe” chutney.

As I pulled an extra duvet over myself that night I reflected that I had only one more day of hunting to get two more animals! And to think that a week ago I was thinking that I might have to fly out a day or two early because I was such a proficient hunter. I reminded myself to be thankful for the spectacular hunt to date and to be satisfied even if I took nothing else.

Friday, July 27th

Awoke full of hope but a little apprehensive because a cold front from the south had brought winds that shook the tents overnight and would be sure to make the game more skittish and the bullets more wayward. Speaking of wayward bullets, our scope zero check confirmed that the mount was perfect, but I had a flinch! I spent the rest of the day reminding myself to aim low and to squeeze the trigger.

Soon we saw a reasonable pair of hartebeest bulls in the distant brush so we got out to stalk. Unfortunately, the pair ran toward a previously seen herd in such a way that for us to maneuver downwind of the pair would have placed us upwind of the herd, which would spook the pair, so we abandoned the stalk. I was getting antsy about getting a hartebeest – any hartebeest – and I reminded Karl that at this point I was not out to shatter any records. Karl just smiled.

A gemsbok caught our attention, and then we saw several hartebeest nearby as well. As they began to run to the right Karl marked out a good bull, which paused to look at us. With considerations of range, bullet-drop, windage, and trigger-control swirling in my head, I let loose a 180 gr Barnes TSX, which, I am pleased to report, hit the bull mid-flank – enough to slow him down for another shot from me and Karl (I asked him for the insurance shot). We were 250 yards away, across a shallow valley, so we quickly got in the truck to circle around to the bull, which we found still just alive. Karl took a thin skinning blade and pithed him.

My relief was enormous – I finally had my hartebeest! Smaller than an eland, with horns much shorter than those of a kudu or gemsbok, the hartebeest, because of its unusual appearance, figured high on my trophy list. This was a very handsome bull; where I would have been more than content with a mediocre specimen, this one had horns with thick bases, long tips, and teeth worn down to the gums. By the time we took all the photographs and loaded him on the truck it was only 0930 – plenty of time to bag that last warthog!

We dropped off the hartebeest at the farm to be skinned and set off. By lunchtime we had had a few shots, but no luck. After a quick sandwich we immediately started again. The afternoon yielded many more opportunities, some of them at sizable boars, but my abject failure to connect with the brutes caused me much gnashing of teeth and self-castigation. Karl only chuckled imperturbably and made sure to plug his ears and watch out for the shower of hot cases when we approached a hog, which would invariably trot off, quite alive, with his erect tail waving derisively at me!

As the sun neared the horizon my hope was plummeting as fast my supply of ammo. I tried to adopt a philosophical attitude – I had taken five animals that qualified for NAPHA Gold Medal after all – but I was ticked off even so! My heart sank as we sighted the farmhouse in the distance: the end of my African hunt. It had been a good ten days!

Just then a convoy of warthogs broke cover just in front of us and charged across the road. Instinctively, I chose a big male and blasted away as he dove into the bush. The hunt ended in a formulaic, happy-ending sort of way, for that bullet tore its way from the posterior left mid-flank, through the length of his body, and blew a big hole out the anterior midline throat. My watch read 17:00.

So my bag was complete, at the eleventh hour. I asked Karl whether he had planned it that way; he just smiled. For all the agony of uncertainty that I suffered, it made for a much more memorable hunt. If I had bagged the hartebeest and warthog immediately upon arrival at the farm, there would have been a couple of days of thumb-twiddling, and I would have come away with an insufferably high opinion of my shooting skill. As it was, the trip was an exhilarating nail-biter to the bitter end, and I learned a lesson in humility – most appropriate for a novice who had never even hunted with a rifle before.

Back at the camp I enjoyed a last evening around the fire. The owner and his wife delivered our dinner and stayed to chat a while. They told of their experiences buying springbok to stock their property. Karl described how Kalahari springbok were herded by helicopter into nets hidden behind dunes and then sedated with the anti-psychotic drug haloperidol before they literally fretted themselves to death!

Saturday, July 28th

Made an early start to deliver the last trophies to Trophäendienste and arrange for dip/pack/ship of all my trophies to my taxidermist. At the gift shop, picked up some gifts, including a young children’s version of Jock of the Bushveld and The Sheltering Desert, the account of two German geologists who survived for two and a half years in the Namib desert during World War II. Could not pass up bumper stickers of Namibia/Warthog and Deutsch-Südwestafrika.

Then to the airport and home after the usual airline delays.

Conclusion

When Karl assured me in an early e-note that I would not be disappointed he was right. This hunt delivered more than I ever hoped for. The camps and lodges were quite comfortable, the food abundant and delicious. The animals were numerous and of high quality. Moving from place to place over the course of ten days prevented monotony and exposed me to different terrain and concentrations of species. Perhaps as enjoyable as the hunt itself were the opportunities to meet so many amiable people of different backgrounds – a unique cultural experience.

Over the course of ten days, spending every waking moment with him, I got to know my impresario Karl Stumpfe very well. Perhaps it is natural for hunters to admire their PH’s, but there is no mistaking Karl’s detailed knowledge of flora/fauna, his passion for hunting and shooting, his strong sense of integrity, and the respect for the animals he hunts. Add to that equanimity and amiability, and you have an ideal hunting buddy. Lord willing, I will return often, to hunt buffalo or elephant with Karl and to bring my boys to experience this great adventure in magnificent Africa as well.

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