by Zach Hein
“An African safari? What are you hunting?”
The question was the same every time, and my hesitant answer was always the same if better rehearsed.
“Honestly, I have no clue. Plains game, but it will be whatever the bush provides.”
I had blatantly stolen that common phrase, one first used on me by the legendary outdoor writer and editor Kevin Steele when he hosted me on my initial trip to Africa many years ago. While it may seem quite the stretch that I had no hard and fast list of animals to pursue after flying halfway around the world with a rifle and a shotgun in tow, that’s exactly how it was. For me, this trip was equal to a mental reset and an opportunity to sit back and watch as my buddies and their friends experienced Africa for the first time.
I had started planning this trip a year prior, having thrown myself into writing and photography full-time. I hoped to hitch a ride with friends as they headed to Limpopo for their inaugural safaris, take thousands of photos, and try to stumble into a few notable experiences.
A river, region, and province in northeast South Africa, Limpopo is a mecca for anyone interested in African wildlife. With a landscape ranging from rocky massifs to arid savannahs and meandering river bottoms, the region is home to the Big 5 dangerous game animals, more species of antelope than I can count, 1000-plus-year-old baobab trees, and much, much more.
Booking the trip had been easy – as simple as reaching out to Kipp Oertle with HuntZotic Safari Company. A long-time outdoor industry friend and former co-worker, Kipp and his business partner set up their side gig to create a conduit for industry businesses and professionals to experience everything South Africa has to offer without any complications. A little over an hour from the airport in Johannesburg, it was a far cry from the travel adventures and misadventures I’d had previously, from navigating hour after hour on sand roads in a rattletrap rental truck to trying to make internal flight connections with firearms – an impressively difficult proposition for a country with so much hunting-based tourism revenue.
The morning after arrival, we sighted in rifles and took to the veld – a thorny tangle over a backdrop of reddish sand. I sat back and watched as buddies chased everything from Impala to Eland, enjoying their successful stalks on Blesbok, kudu, and Sable. Then the prodding began – friends and PHs alike wanting to know what I was after. Still unsure, the best I could offer was zebra.
Wary and tough, chasing zebra on foot has always felt like a sporting pursuit. I had watched these striped equines mock my fellow hunters, intermingling with other species to gain the benefit of the additional eyes, then spooking at the merest hint that something might be off.
Rounding a corner in the thorny veld, we called a halt to the truck. Curled in a ball at the base of a bush was a female gemsbok – gaunt, bedraggled, and unwilling to stand. The Landcruiser rolled to a stop, and she barely looked up, so sick she was on the edge of death.
"Parasites. Gemsbok can do well on one side of the mountain, but in other places, the ticks get to them -- most likely she has fluid around her heart," Game manager JJ related. “Grab your rifle.”
As we approached on foot, she reluctantly stood and tried to hobble off, stopping broadside and staring at us blankly with her head held low. A lesser chambering would have done the job, but my 300 Win. Mag. slipped behind her shoulder, and she didn't take another step.
The topography of her ribs threw shadows in the falling light as we took in the broken and brooming horns, and her rough, triangular-shaped hair evolved to reflect the heat of the Kalahari’s sun.
"Not even good for garage meat -- it's a shame," he said, shaking his head.
The first mercy kill of the trip would not be the last as we rented time on a very unforgiving continent.
Not thirty minutes later, we put the glasses on a small group of white blesbok, noticing the lead female with a limp and one front leg twice the size of the other.
“She also needs taken. Zach?” JJ turned to me.
Waiting for her younger male escort to clear the shot, the Sako spoke again, and she ran 20 yards before piling up. Wading through the hypodermic-laced low brush, we found that she, too, had been not long for this world, with a necrotic wound on the inside of her front leg near her brisket.
“Bitten by a cobra, I’d say. She would probably die within the week, and it would have been a pretty awful way to go…” JJ reflected as he inspected the bite site, an angry red sore surrounded by swelling.
“Also, not something we want to harvest meat from,” he said with wide eyes and a shake of the head.
Four days into our safari I would finally get my chance at a zebra. With the sun headed for the horizon, Professional Hunter Jaco Fraser pointed out a patch of black and white watching us from behind a thicket and instructed our driver to slow but not stop as we stepped off the truck to let it continue down the sandy two-track without us. The tan bakkie motored on, turning perpendicular to the herd as the road wound through the bushveld. A single, distinctive bark echoed through the thorns, and the zebra was on the move back the way we had come.
Picking up a small handful of sand, Jaco lifted it and let it fall, showing that the shifting wind mostly took our scent perpendicular to the herd.
“We want to circle them and approach from downwind. The sun is setting, though, so we need to be quick,” he said.
With total faith in the ability of my Courtneys to stop any thorn I stepped on, I kept my eyes up, darting from Jaco to the wall of brush in front of us as we picked our way along, quickly finding ourselves standing in the circular hoofprints of our quarry and then following them as quietly as we could.
Twenty minutes passed as we low-walked in the energy-sucking sand. Light was dropping when Jaco put up his binoculars, focusing past the brush, and motioned me close without taking his eyes off the spot. Planting my rifle on the sticks and getting a look through my scope, I could see stripes beyond the thicket, with one chest, neck, and head looking right at me through a ‘V’ between bushes. Even in the fading twilight, the Swarovski’s image was bright and clear, showing an animal with vibrant contrast between black and white – exactly what I had hoped for.
Squeezing the trigger, the S20 barked again, and when the scope settled, I saw four hooves occupying the space the zebra’s head had once been. Walking up, it was apparent that the Federal Trophy Copper had been an absolute hammer. Hitting her square in the chest, she had gone backward and only moved a single hoof a few inches after falling. Hammer indeed.
Relaxing around the night-time braai and partaking of some gin made from the Marula tree above us, I sidled over to JJ to see about completing my Plains game package.
“So I’ve taken the zebra I was after and a couple of animals that needed mercy given their condition. How would you feel if I rounded out my hunt with an animal that other hunters might not want to shoot?” I inquired as his eyebrows drew up into a questioning look.
Earlier in the week, we saw a moderate-sized Nyala who had broken off one of his horns to the core. He was less desirable to many hunters since he would never repair or measure up, which made him perfect for me. I suggested as much to JJ.
“Normally, I’d say getting on the same animal you saw earlier might be tough, but that’s not as much the case with Nyala. We know that bull and where he likes to hang out, so we could probably make that happen.”
Not many would argue that Nyalas are southern Africa's most interestingly adorned antelopes. Males sport orange/tan leggings blending into a shaggy brown/grey body with stripes, slashes, and spots throughout. A heavy neck mane starts at the base of the skull and peters out at the shoulders, except for a single strip atop the backbone that stands straight like a mohawk. Local lore says that the Creator took the Nyala’s face in its hands, proclaiming it the most beautiful of all the antelope and leaving a white thumb and fingerprints on its nose and cheeks to mark the species for time immortal.
Personally, I’d never considered shooting a Nyala because of my preference for European skull mounts – a form of remembrance that would never do justice to the uniqueness of such an animal. Even a shoulder mount can’t capture its full magnificence, as the striking orange-tinged legs and puffy brown pants above them would be lost.
“They do taste very good,” Jaco smiled dryly.
“Backstraps and tenderloins over the braai?” I questioned. He nodded, and it was settled.
The next morning was great, as I could walk up and shoot the final of the three francolin species in the area as we made our way over to the territory the broken bull called home.
After glassing up waterbuck and some young sable, we finally caught sight of our quarry lazily grazing along in a clearing. I followed on Jaco’s heels once more as we closed the distance. Up on the sticks and holding on the shoulder, the Sako hammer fell one final time, the bull taking three steps before collapsing.
A quick call on the radio got the recovery rig rolling, and when it arrived, my buddy, Nelson clapped me on the back in congratulations while Kipp smiled and spat tobacco on a threateningly close sickle bush.
“That’ll do.”
“Thanks, Kipp. I never expected such kind words – must be getting soft in your old age,” I ribbed the crusty but lovable septuagenarian.
Settling in for our final night at HuntZotic’s sprawling lodgings nestled into the top of a koppie – a mini mountain of rock jutting up from the surrounding savannah – we were drawn to the braai as Jaco seared the freshly-cut nyala loins and straps. Sprinkled with a healthy coating of Worcester sauce spice and cooked close to the open coals, the smells and sizzle of game meat were exactly how a night in the bushveld should be capped off.
Though the thought that the ‘bush will provide’ might border on cliché, it feels pretty darn good to head into a hunt like this with no expectations or framework and roll with it.
“Back from Africa? What did you hunt?”
“Well, sixteen species – six of them gamebirds. Shot a handful of plains game, stumbled into a blue duiker hunt behind beagles, broke out the over/under for sand grouse in the setting sun, and capped it off by helping Harry a problem troop of baboons out of baobabs using thermals.”
My, oh my, did the bush provide – but each of those is its own story…