ARTICLES
POSTCARD from the EDGE
Once you’ve hunted Africa, you might never again have a savings account… because you’ll have to go back!
Six months have passed since I stood above the gray-green Limpopo River, intoxicated by the strange bird song while straining to catch a glimpse of the creatures that are a leading cause of death in Africa. It was midsummer back home in Alabama, but wintertime on the Dark Continent — the reason, I suppose, that I never saw the fearsome crocodiles.
The Limpopo, which forms the meandering border between South Africa and Botswana, is the setting for the folk tale of how elephants got their trunks (from a crocodile pulling on the formerly stubby snout of a baby elephant).

I’ll never forget the rainy day spent cruising mamba country, where the grass is thicker and taller and the leadwood trees gargantuan. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still see the troupes of vervet monkeys scampering up the thick ,leaning trunks; the emerald-green and yellow birds flitting from fencepost to fencepost in front of our moving truck; and the majestic kudu bull standing in full sun, an image meant for a postcard. I spent only a few hours there, but my mind absorbed enough sights and sounds to produce a weeklong series for the Discovery Channel. (Believe me, it sure filled up a scrapbook!)

Most of my 10 days, however, were spent in totally different terrain bordering the Mogol River, a tributary of the Limpopo. Like the brush country of South Texas, it wasn’t particularly breathtaking. Unlike the verdant Africa depicted in Tarzan movies, it was brown, scrubby and dusty. The wildlife and the sunsets, however, were beyond compare. Every outing was filled with wonder, from my first encounter with a dung beetle to seeing a family of mongooses that had taken over a head-high termite mound.

I had a lot of time to think about my wish list during the 17-hour flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg. And near the top of that list was harvesting a gemsbok, one of the most distinctive, high-horned antelopes wandering the plains.
To be honest, I’d never even heard of a gemsbok, which is a species of oryx, before committing to this safari. Yet when I saw my first photograph of one, I immediately picked out a spot on the wall of my log home suitable for yet one more piece of three-dimensional art with hair and glass eyes.

The first time that I saw one in the wild, during the second day of mysafari, I shot it!
My partner, Tim Martin of Auburn, had been first up with the gun, and he’d shot a blesbok (“blaze buck”) before lunchtime. When we resumed our slow drive through Christo Carstens’ 2,000-acre farm that afternoon, I saw my first regal kudu bull. That a 1,000-pound animal could vanish into the bush so quickly and easily is mind-boggling.
Not too long after we gave up on stalking the kudu, we spotted a small herd of gemsbok moving through the stunted trees. No sooner had the Isuzu pickup stopped rolling, we were sneaking through the bush – Thomas Pavier, my “professional hunter,” in the lead. We’d gone maybe 200 yards when Jessie Jimenez, my host, and Thomas stopped and motioned feverishly for me to move nearer.  

Four or five gemsboks were about 70 or 80 yards away, standing motionless and staring at us. They might not have stopped at all had the group not spooked a much larger herd of blue wildebeests while evading us.
“See the one in front, to the left?” Jessie whispered. “He’s a very nice bull. Put it right at the point of his shoulder!”
Convinced that I had only seconds to shoot, I never even looked at the critter’s horns. I’ve hunted with Jessie enough to know that if he says“shoot,” I’d better squeeze the trigger. So I dropped to my knees, found the lead bull’s shoulder beneath the crosshairs and touched the trigger of my weathered .30-06.
I have a bad habit of lifting my head after shooting — instead of peering through the scope. I guess I expect everything to fall. But this one didn’t! He disappeared along with the rest of the herd, leaving behind only a cloud of red dust that seemed to permeate my lightweight clothes and stick to my teeth.
“Did you see where he went?” I asked Thomas.
“You hit him!” he and Jessie replied (music to my ears). With that, we all forged ahead to where the animal had been standing.

George, the native tracker with us, found no blood, at least at first. But his keen eyesight and experience eventually led us to a single drop of it about 150 yards deeper into the bush. We continued tracking for another 500 yards before deciding to mark the trail, return to the truck and then drive back to camp to collect Franz, a second tracker.
Five of us tracked the animals (my bull was apparently still with the group) for about three hours, although George and Franz seemed to have lost much of their enthusiasm since they’d come to believe that I’d gut-shot the gemsbok. They reached that conclusion after George found a wet spot halfway into the trek that he indicated was stomach fluid.
Since he’s not fluent in anything but Sotho (“sutu”), his native language, only Thomas could understand what he said. Otherwise, for the sake of the rest of us, George conveyed his thoughts with gestures. When he sniffed the dirt from the dime-sized wet spot and touched his abdomen, even I could figure out what he was trying to say. And it was then that my heart sank, right along with my pride. I wouldn’t call myself a crack shot, but I’m usually pretty darn accurate!

With maybe a half-hour of daylight remaining, we turned back toward the truck. They would pick up the trail the next day, while Tim and I were hunting a different farm known for its impala and warthog. I was crushed!
On the short drive back to camp, three or four gemsbok crossed the dirt track in front of us. That could have been the same group we’d been following, but none of the animals appeared to have been wounded. A little farther, we spotted a lone gemsbok barely 100 yards off the road — just standing there looking at us.
While Thomas glassed the animal, Jessie asked George if he thought it could be the wounded one, and George nodded and gave an enthusiastic “Yes!”using perhaps a third of his English vocabulary. Jessie probably would’ve gotten the same “Yes!” if he’d asked George what color the moon was!
“Go ahead and shoot him,” Jessie advised, brow furrowed. And I did, aiming at the animal’s chest. At the shot, the gemsbok turned on its heels and began loping away from us.  
            
“Shoot him again,” Jessie urged, and I obliged. But the animal merely turned and began racing in the opposite direction. “Give it another,” Thomas cried.
At the third shot, the gemsbok finally faltered, sank to its knees and rolled.
When we reached my prize, Jessie and partner Bud Weakland, who’d been driving, grew somber. It was a female, and she’d not been wounded beforehand. I, on the other hand, was elated. Not only had I collected a beautiful gemsbok, but all three shots had also struck exactly where I’d meant to put them, a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by Franz (who smiled at Thomas as he held up three fingers). My confidence in my offhanded shooting — even at a moving target —was soaring. In addition, I was astounded at how strong she was, since my first shot had taken out her heart. I slept well that night, snuggled in my comfortable bed in the newest of the thatched cottages Christo has built for his clients.
With three meals a day, an open bar and the daily laundering of our clothes, we were not roughing it. It was more resort than hunting camp.
True to plan, Tim and I accompanied Thomas to a different farm the next day. Tim collected both a toothy warthog and a gorgeous impala ram, and I brought back a record book steenbok (that’s another story).

In Tim’s and my absence, the trackers had found no further trace of the wounded gemsbok bull. Tim and I returned to the other farm on day four. About 9 a.m., the landowner found us and told Thomas that Christo’s wife, Marlice, had called. Jessie and Bud wanted us back at camp to take photographs of someone’s gemsbok. Tim turned to me and said, “Maybe they found yours!”
“That would be cool,” I replied, not believing it, “but I bet somebody just got a big one and they want magazine-quality photos.” If I’d thought more about it, I would have dismissed that notion. All of the PHs I met over there took great pride and went the extra mile to set up and take wonderful keepsake photographs! American outfitters could learn much from these guys.
When we pulled up to the skinning shed about 20 minutes later, my hopes skyrocketed. There was a huge (400- to 450-pound) gemsbok bull on the ground and no sign of another hunter. I knew before being told that he was mine.          
Turns out, the lung shot had been dead-on, but the animal’s incredible stamina had somehow kept him alive and on his feet for another 48 hours. He’d only been dead for an hour or two —still very warm to the touch — when George spotted it a couple of miles from where I’d shot it.

They hadn’t even been looking for the gemsbok. From atop the moving truck, George saw its long black horns sticking above the tall grass well off the road. Displaying more emotion than anyone thought he was capable of, the lean tracker leapt out of the truck and sprinted toward the fallen animal, shouting “gemsbok!” There was never any doubt that it was my bull. The single shot’s entry hole (the bullet didn’t exit) was precisely where Jessie had told me to put it.
I was elated, and so was everyone else. Nobody thought we’d find him.
While George and Franz were preparing to cape my trophy, I slipped back to my room to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. I called George to the side and put the pack in his cupped hands. I’ve never heard a more sincere “Thank you!” in my life, and I was ecstatic over having inspired it.
I never bargained for two of these magnificent creatures, and that they are male and female was another plus! I correspond regularly with Highveld Taxidermists, the South African company mounting the pair for me, and I can’t wait for the trophies to be delivered to my door.

Strangely, the stories of my most memorable hunts are often the most difficult to write. It’s certainly not that they’re lacking in rich, you-can-taste-it, feel-it detail, but they’re so full of these tidbits that any attempt to adequately paint the setting or to convey myriad thoughts always seems to fall short. None of my previous adventures, however, can touch my South African safari. And if I’ve failed to convince you, I apologize.
Booking Information: Thrill seekers can have the same 10-day safari for SIX plains game animals for about the same cost of a deer hunt in Canada or South Texas, where you MIGHT get to harvest ONE buck. For more information on this hunting package, call Russell Weakland at Amber African Adventures — (301) 790-2084 — or e-mail him at hunterwbg@aol.com.