Speaking Terms
By Pungubwe
At latest count, there are over 2.5 million members in the American National Rifle Association, and an equal number of members in other similar groups around the world. Within these governing bodies of shooters there are a number of approved shooting disciplines; e.g., small bore, high power, bulls eye pistol, police pistol, action pistol, skeet, trap and on and on.
Each of these entities, of course has its own specific rules and regulations, not the least of which is a published list of standardized range commands and gun handling protocol. I have, over the years had a somewhat diverse career within these various competitive disciplines, but, my most in-depth and extended experience lies generally within the sphere of professional outfitting and sport hunting. I have now been on both the receiving and providing end of this business for 40 years. During this period it has been my more than casual observation, that very little of the aforementioned standardized communications and protocol (with the exception of gun safety) have seeped into the recreational hunting industry.
During my first 30 years of hunting, whether pursuing Coues deer in Arizona or Caribou on the Alaskan Peninsula, I cannot remember receiving but perhaps one or two in-depth pre-hunt briefings. Oh yeah, occasionally Old Luke, with the pointed toed boots and raggedy hat, would saunter up to the campfire and casually announce “ok, we're hunting elk in the morning, see you at 0500”.
Very rarely indeed, during these times, was there ever a discourse on calibres, bullet weights, optics or gun safety. Only once during this period did a North American guide/outfitter, actually drag me out to the range and watch me shoot. In the past 10 years, the northern hemisphere outfitters have done a great deal to professionalize and standardize some of their business. But, trust me, the opportunity for misunderstanding is still alive and thriving.
Since 1959 I have obsessively hung on every word of the master hunters of yesteryear. It is quite obvious from these writings that even way back during the Great Safari Renaissance of the 1950's, frequent trips to the range were mandated by Maestro Ruark's world famous PH and mentor Harry Selby. During these leisurely and less frantic days, clients would often arrive 2 or 3 days ahead of the hunt and then have a further few days to actually spend getting into the hunt area. This provided lots of time to get acquainted and allowed for thorough discussions on who, what, when, where and how far.
Considering today's hectic schedules, fast food and the slam dunk, it has become quite normal for the sports to arrive at 6 pm the night before they are to start hunting. This type of schedule barely allows you enough time to figure out where you're sleeping and what time breakfast is. Of course, when your hunting among long-time buddies, good comms have usually evolved over the years and everyone has an intuitive picture of what their buddies are doing. But even among life-long hunting friends I have personally observed the “hey Charley there's a buck” syndrome.For example, Paul Van Acker and I have been hunting together for longer than most people have been alive. In 1999, Paul and I had travelled via car, jet liner, multi-engine prop planes and single engine puddle jumpers, in order to be smack in the middle of the forever moving, 1½ million strong Mulchatna Caribou herd. On our third day out, Paul and I split up and I was hunting solo with our local guide. After about four hours of sloshing, spotting and stalking, we saw a group of about 30 Caribou heading somewhat in our direction. After a quarter mile sprint, we were comfortably hidden behind two 18-wheeler sized boulders. My trusty guide had declared before the sprint “there are four very large bulls in that bunch.”
“Alright, there's a really good bull. He's the third one back from that lead cow. Do you see him? Wait a minute. Wait a minute. There's a cow right behind him. OK, that's him just stepping clear of that scrub acacia.”
This type of concise communication can often make the difference between success and failure.
The best advice I can give any hunter with limited experience is to quote the old cliché, “The only stupid question is the one that went unasked.” Always, when you're booked with an outfitter or merely going hunting with your best friend, insist on a discussion of some sort on any subject with which you are in doubt. Special emphasis should be added to the what, where and how of gun safety. Trust me on this one; other riflemen from various parts of this planet have opinions that are diverse in the extreme regarding gun handling. In Idaho it is perfectly legal to travel about in a pick-up, with a fully loaded rifle in the cab, even in town. In some other states you would immediately be arrested and deported to Camp X-ray for two life sentences. Know what the rules are and if there aren't any, impose your own. As an example, when to be loaded and when not to be loaded often makes for a good topic of discussion.
If you think this subject doesn't need to be aired among hunters, ask HHK's Zimbabwean PH, Steve Brewer what it feels like to be shot in the head by an imbecile of a hunter, that didn't know when to load and unload.
I will end this little treatise with a quote from my favourite African curmudgeon of days gone by, John “Pondoro” Taylor:
“Safety precautions should not be carried to such an extreme that they defeat their object and become a positive danger”. This is precisely what they have become. Take for example that incident related by Jim Corbett in one of his books. Jim and an acquaintance wounded a tiger one evening and after following the blood spoor for a while, had to quit when the light failed. The following morning the sportsman went out to pick up the spoor, where he'd left it the previous evening. He was accompanied by the local shikari leading the group, and carrying the sportsman's empty rifle.When still half-a-mile or so from where they had quit the previous evening, the shikari almost stumbled over the wounded tiger, which promptly clawed him down and killed him. Now, I ask you, what kind of absurdly exaggerated safety precautions are they which cost a man his life? But it would seem that in India at any rate, and to a somewhat lesser extent in Africa, it's quite customary for men to omit to load their rifles until just before they expect to need them. If a man can't trust himself to carry a loaded rifle out of camp without risk of shooting somebody, then he has no business ever handling a rifle at all and should take up golf or tennis instead.”
africa's professional journal for serious hunters since 1994
Once, not long ago, I was young, and keen, and full of the vinegar and juice of life. I was strong and the whole world was open before me. Now, suddenly, I am “middle aged”. I am the age of people who, not long ago, I branded contemptuously as “old farts”.
Hunter's Gallery
 Lion by Randy CadwalladerRandy Cadwallader with a beautiful lion taken with PH Peter Fick. |  Buffalo by Dave CreamerDave Creamer and a nice old buffalo taken with Grant Taylor & Mashambanzou Safaris Mozambique. |
|---|---|
 Nyala by Rob WalshRob Walsh with a beautiful nyala taken with Cheetah Safaris. |  Impala by Alex NemeklaAlex Nemekla and a nice impala shot a 80 metres with a .308 and Africa Hunting Safaris, Inc. |
 Warthog by Ralph von BargenRalph von Bargen with a nice warthog shot in Chirundu with PH Jannie Meyer. |
Selling my Double
Finally, resigned, my gaze comes to rest on my desk in front of me. On my double. My beautiful companion. My partner in uncountable triumphs and mishaps and wild adventures. This double rifle of mine was built by Westley Richards, and was completed on the 25th day of July in 1912. It is scarred and burnished and scratched a bit now, but it's a simple thing to see that this rifle is one of Westley Richards' best. It's a 450/400, with a hand-detachable lock action. The 26 inch barrels are handsomely crowned with perfect folding leaf iron sights which give an impractical promise all the way out to 500 yards.
A few minutes ago I was reading, for the umpteenth time, my copy of the original Westley Richards ledger. It lies there now next to the rifle. This ledger tells me that my companion started out into the old game lands via delivery to the offices of the Great Indian Trading Company “Lyon and Lyon of Calcutta” – in London. How I would love to know what the next step was. Was it with some gin-soaked old Lord Ponsomby-Hamilton-Walker who needed the rifle for his first tiger drive? Did this old beauty (young, then) blood itself on a magnificent charging tiger? Or a rogue Indian elephant maybe? Or perhaps it started gently, with a gaur, or maybe a man-eating leopard. Who knows? What I do know is that the rifle resurfaced in Kenya (British East Africa back then) in 1953, during the Mau Mau uprising – it was owned by a captain Thomas Ellenborough. It's an interesting tale, perhaps a tale for another time, on how the rifle ended up at Broken Hill, Northern Rhodesia and finally into my hands.
I reach forward, and raise that perfectly crafted blend of wood and steel. I snuggle it into my shoulder one more time. How many times have I done this? Once more I swing it over to the left, in a fluid flat motion that feels like we are machinery together. I stop on the two old buffalo. I have killed them here in my office many many times before.
But now I see that the problem, the curse, is still there. My middle-aged eyes can no longer focus on the sights and the target at the same time. The beautiful rifle, now 96 years old, is unchanged. But I, at 48 years old, am changed. Last month, my eyes could do the job. This month, they can not. Last year I had to purchase my first pair of reading glasses. I put them on now, but they do not help.
“Put a scope on” someone told me. “Buy one of those new fangled Trijicon sighting systems”. I cradle the old gun and my gaze shifts to the rear sights. A scope? On my double? Would you bolt a roof rack onto your Lamborghini? How about onto your Porsche? Why not? You're going away; you need somewhere to put your luggage! I shudder at the thought of a scope screwed into the top of this magnificent rifle.
Many years ago, when I started carrying a .460 Weatherby as a back-up rifle, I felt a bit guilty, almost as if I was betraying my old beauty in some way. But I had to face the fact that as much as I loved that rifle, it was not the rifle for all circumstances. But when the blood of a client's gut-shot lion drew us into the thick stuff and I knew the shot was going to be close, then the .460 would go into the hands of my number two tracker and my double and I would once more face the fury together. I suppose I could put a gadget onto my .460. No problem. But I will not put any gadget onto my double.
Once, long ago, I remember driving west along the old “security road” in the Zambezi Valley, the hazy purple ridge of the escarpment way off to my right, - or south. I turned to my client “Jack, you see that ridge? That's the escarpment. It's rugged and broken, its wild country. There are gorges, and valleys, and small plateaus, and there are secret hidden springs up there. There are buffalo bulls up there who have never seen a man. We will backpack into that mess and that's where we'll find your bull.” Being young, and brash, and full of all the knowledge that young people think they have, I wisecracked “You know the difference between a good keen hunter and a tired useless hunter Jack?”
“No” he answered, “What?”
“A good hunter looks at those hills and he tells you about the water and the buffalos that could be up there. A tired useless hunter tells you – See those hills up there? Those hills are dry and rugged. There's no water. No game lives up there; - we'll be hunting the river valleys and grasslands down here”. Jack laughed politely.
Jack and I did march into those hills, and after four days we did find a giant buffalo who had probably never seen a human-being before. But I sit here now and wonder. Am I now the hunter who would pretend that the escarpment is barren? Just so I don't have to walk up there? Or would I still be enticed up there, drawn by the secrets and promise of unspoiled far away places? Would I still go for it, bad back and all, just so my client can get the best I can give him? I like to believe I would.
But I have become friends with a young man. A young man whose muscles are still tight and who does not think or care about tomorrow. He is full of the vinegar and juice of life and grey hairs for him are still a long way off. And his eyes are perfect. And he loves this double. But this young man has no money. He seems to have enough for beer, and pretty young girls, but he doesn't have enough to buy this rifle. But as I said, he loves it. Every time he comes into my office and we sit swapping hunting stories, he also kills these two old bulls in my painting. Swinging the old gun like he and it are welded together.
So now I've drawn up a payment plan for him. Perhaps he can pay for it in ten years. Maybe with some really good tips he can do it in five or six. He's a man who looks at the escarpment and can't wait to get up into it, and I so want this old gun to visit those secret places again. I sign off on the proposed payment plan on my desk in front of me, and then I pick up the gun, caress it, feel its balance, and swing it smoothly over to the bulls for the last time.
The Lion is Death (Part II)
I remember long ago, as a teenager, reading the red blooded adventure writers of our time; Wilbur Smith, Louis L'Amour, John Gordon Davis – I remember deciding that one day, I would have my own masculine office. My own “Sean Courtney” office - books, leather, old solid wood, shotguns, brandy, cigars, magnificent original oil paintings, massive stone fireplace. My dog lying there. Veteran of many cold misty mornings out in duck country. I would have a beautiful wife who only came into this office hesitantly, and only after knocking politely. That's what I decided, nearly forty years ago.
Well now I have that office, or something close to it anyway. I look out my window and I can see the Ngudwini River snaking along almost two thousand feet down in the valley below. Blue mountains march across the horizon and thick bush clads the hills across the river. I frequently hear bushbuck barking down there, near the river. Every now and then a Black Eagle planes across the gorge beneath my window, gliding with the currents. Looking, being perfect. My fireplace is beautiful, and big. My dog, a handsome animal who is terrified of guns and hunting, excels in his one and only job – to be my friend. He lies there on the thick carpet, dreaming of I know not what. Definitely not the wild calls of ducks in the marsh. I know that much. I did manage to find a beautiful wife. But she comes in and out of the office as she wishes. No knocking. She also has a desk in here, so I suppose it would be foolish to ask her to knock. But it's an office not that far off what I dreamed of so long ago.
So many years have raced by between that time and now. How did it happen? Once, not long ago, I was young, and keen, and full of the vinegar and juice of life. I was strong and the whole world was open before me. Now, suddenly, I am “middle aged”. I am the age of people who, not long ago, I branded contemptuously as “old farts”. Of course I have seen many things. And many places too. I have walked in the thrill and the horror of war; I have seen death, and life, in many forms. I have helped bring two beautiful children to adulthood. Certainly I have lived, and continue to live, a life which can never be described as “normal”. I have been a hunter all my life, so I have seen things and done things and walked in places that most “normal” people never dream of.
But now something important, something earth shaking, for me, has changed.
I am selling my double.
It's coming on for evening now. The whole valley has cooled down and nearby a big old grey turtle dove, who the Ndebele call “vugutu”, hoots out his infinite question – “Who's that, with a two-two? Who's that with a two-two?”
Sitting here at this heavy old teak desk I stare at my favourite books as long as I want to. There they stand, jammed tightly against one another. But they are not leather bound like I had promised myself. Some are tattered. All in their original covers, paperback and hardback, cheek to jowl. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry – my favourite, Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks, a handful of the early Wilbur Smiths before he went “soap opera” – When the Lion Feeds, The Sunbird, and Sound of Thunder – great books all. A thin one hides there smothered by the others – The Old Man and the Sea by Hemingway – the only one of his books I really liked.
My gaze shifts over to the beautiful oil painting above the fi replace. Two huge sullen old buffalo bulls stand next to a greasy pool in a lost swamp somewhere. They're surrounded by impenetrable papyrus and several white egrets stand on their backs. I love that painting. It reminds me that there are still a few places, way out there, far away from civilisation off the beaten track where a man can find something from an earlier world, something unspoiled and raw. A place where he can prod and release that primitive vibration that lives inside of some of us, that tingling anticipation which pumps from the heart when we close with our prey.
Noted South African author T V Bulpin wrote a masterpiece in The Hunter is Death in 1968. It is the story of the legendary poacher-turned-game-keeper George Rushby (the man who also introduced trout into the streams of Mbeya in Tanganyika - I saw them myself in 1985 but didn’t have a rod to hand) and his almost single-handed battle with another pride of seemingly supernatural lions. These lions
had terrorised the community around Njombe for decades and were believed to have killed well over a thousand people. The Second World War fell within a portion of their reign, and had succeeded in diverting most of the colony’s resources away from wildlife management.
Rushby, also a friend of the fabled snake hunter C J P Ionides, was transferred to Tanganyika’s Southern Highlands Province just after the war - his superior, Monty Moore VC, respected George’s crack skill with a rifle, and cautioned him that “those Njombe lions are something more than a joke...I think it’s time that we had an end to them.”
But if local beliefs were to be taken into consideration, these were no mere lions - the cult of mbojo - lycanthropy - was prevalent in the Singida district, and it was also “common practice” for men to turn into hyenas - a subtle difference from the mudzimu belief where the lion is possessed by the spirit of a deceased witchdoctor or chief. George Rushby had not heard of any supernatural content in the Njombe lion saga until Moore briefed him, but the locals believed these to be watu-simba, or lion men. Rushby would be stymied in his initial efforts to rid the district of the man-eaters by villagers who believed the killers to be incarnations of the local witchdoctors and by the witchdoctors themselves who were content for that bit of PR to get around. The run of the mill villagers have a fatalistic approach to life at best, and especially where other-worldliness is concerned - best for the white man to leave well enough alone, even if they were being slaughtered by the hundreds.
The lion men first came to prominence in 1920, when some two hundred killings occurred in the Singida area and the circumstances attracted the attention of the media. Were all these killings the work of real lions? Survivors invariably described their attackers as genuine lions, but probably not. The local witchdoctors were not only running a lucrative extortion racket whereby they offered protection against the lions for a fee, but there was little first world policing there then, and a human murderer in the employ of the sorcerers could kill his victims in such a way as to be accepted as a lion attack in the light of what would be a cursory investigation by colonial authorities. Rushby was intrigued by the supernatural implication for the Njombe lions - the Dark Continent exuded more mystery then than now, but he was confident in the efficacy of the well-placed bullet on a rogue lion or the hangman’s noose on the murderous witchdoctor. George left with his family for Mbeya in October of 1945.
Shortly after Rushby’s arrival, he was confronted by the road foreman engaged in maintenance of the Mbeya-Iringa section of road, a logistically-important conduit. (Man-eating lions just love construction camps.) The foreman, Watermeyer, had lost as far as he knew seventeen of his labourers, and for some obscure reason replacements were hard to find. George Rushby’s predecessor, Dusty Arundell had been somewhat lacking in his response to the lion challenge, and men like Watermeyer were demanding change.
When George Rushby arrived at Njombe, he was advised that the current reign of terror had commenced around 1932, but despite a half-hearted response from the game department and police, to date not one lion had been killed in the area since the start of the depredations. 1932 coincided with the overthrow of one Matamula - a powerful chief and witchdoctor at Iyayi village, who was claiming to control man-eating lions. Only one chief in the area had kept any record at all of the killings, and in the previous four years, his list sported two hundred and thirty names from the Wanginombe district. From his as yet limited knowledge of the area, George concluded that the killings in Mtwango district must be on a par and those from Rujewa even worse. His estimate was over 1,500 souls. He went to work immediately.
In Rushby’s first two weeks, he saw nary a lion paw print, and he was diverted from Njombe by government bureaucracy which gave priority to the control of red locusts. The real function of African colonial game departments was always to dovetail wildlife areas with rapidly expanding human populations with the priority being given to agriculture. In January of 1946, George Rushby returned to Njombe with his six best game scouts and numerous trap guns. He soon found that the killers fed securely through the night, and then abandoned their prey and travelled hard - their track was always cold by the time a hunter arrived on the scene. Conventional hunting strategies would not work, and Rushby instead set up a series of blinds, tree machans and pits at strategic locations.
Arriving at the village of Mambego, where informants had told him there had been “a bad night”, he found the cluster of huts all but deserted. A small girl had been overlooked, and the old and infirm left behind to their own devices as those who were able to fled. Without much optimism, Rushby erected a hide and settled in for what was to be an uneventful night. The following morning, some inhabitants began to trickle back in, including the girl’s father - her mother had been eaten the previous night in the village where they had gone for refuge! Going in pursuit, Rushby soon cut fresh lion spoor, only to find his game scouts less than enthusiastic. They tracked down four lion resting in the shade or a large tree, and George dropped a lioness with two quick shots. Approaching cautiously, his retainers seemed relieved when the carcass failed to transform into its human form or - worse - some malodorous demon. Four days later, George’s party killed their second lion. Rushby knew that soon the news of the mortality of the lions in the shadow of the white man’s magic in the form of powder and lead would spread through the bush.
Administrative duties called George back to Mbeya, and it wasn’t until March that he was able to return his attention to the man-eaters. Very little progress had been made by his scouts, though one had followed up and killed one more lion. Matamula, meanwhile, was being petitioned by one faction to return to his chiefdom, and had intimated that he would call off “his lions” if this were effected. On Rushby’s return, he followed up the spoor of a young male lion and shot the cat in full charge at a distance of no more than ten yards.
Only nineteen people had been eaten in George’s absence. One of whom was the little girl from the village where he had made his first lion kill. The following day, George and one of his best game scouts killed two more lions. His attention was diverted until after Christmas by an inquest into the death of a European cattle trader involved in a poaching conspiracy with one of Rushby’s own game scouts. The scout had recovered a pair of large elephant tusks from the bush, and the cattleman was trampled when they ventured out to shoot a small elephant on license and substitute the ivory.
It was February of 1947 before George was free to return to his lions. Eight suspected man-eaters had now been eliminated by George or by his scouts, and the killings were starting to decrease proportionately. The most recent predation had occurred in the Ilembula-Malimzenga region, and George tried to second-guess where the lions would strike next. They had in the past shown a consistent pattern in their movements whereby they would take their leave from one area and then move in a straight line until something compelled them to turn off at a tangent - each track and turn were geometrically concise, and when one of their paths crossed human habitation they would kill again. Consulting the map, and perhaps using The Force, George headed for Halali village, which was about ten miles away from their last known depredations. After his first morning’s hunt out from Halali, Rushby returned to find that a pair of lions had taken a man from that very village about an hour after he had set out. In a follow-up that afternoon, George shot two more lions, bringing the total to ten. While following up these two lions, George had come face to face with a magnificent large male that he had not been able to dispatch. This great lion had surprised George as he was following up one of the other Halali lions, mock-charging him from his blind side. Taken off guard he had spun around and brought his rifle to bear but had not been able to fire a shot before the cat melted off into the bush. Its visage was forever inscribed on his memory - his own, personal Moriarti. But he was now distracted for a full three months with crop protection duties and guiding VIP visitors.
By June, George was on his way to Singida, where the high court was hearing the case of a number of locals involved in the lion-man killings, which had commenced in that area in 1946. The implication was more of lion-men - the hatchet men of a recalcitrant chief or sorcerer - than lions. Game scouts who had been sent into the area could find no lions and became easily convinced that a supernatural agency was at work. The police had been able to gather enough evidence pointing to murder to arrest 27 local villagers. But while there were still real lions prowling about, the lion-man was something wholly different to anything George Rushby had yet encountered. They were real, but of course not lycanthropes - villagers who had been brainwashed by a combination of mumbo-jumbo and drugs to become ferocious killers on demand - they were then hired out for around thirty shillings a kill. Some were even surgically crippled so as to walk and move in lion fashion - I have myself seen similar techniques employed in Egypt to create cripples who can in turn be hired out as beggars.
To give an insight into the process, the testimony of one Mande is worth looking at. At the age of around twelve, he was kidnapped and taken to the house of Mama Kitoto, a local witch and purveyor of lion-men and women. There he met a number of people “turned into” lions by having been dressed in hides and monkey skin cowls. Mande was accorded the same treatment, and also described being drugged with various medicines which made him “incapable of thinking”. Mama Kitoto finally told him it was time to make his first kill; following which he was to kill his sister Baha. Having been given two knives and a machete, he was directed to where some local villagers were grinding grain, and instructed to kill one of their children - in this he was fortunately unsuccessful as the locals attacked him and a more experienced lion man came and dragged him away by the leg. He sustained a more or less permanent injury to his knee, and was no longer considered lion-man material. One hundred and three people had been killed in Singida since the troubles began, but the area was quiet during George’s sojourn there - though his visit had been instructive insofar as he was now enlightened into the lion man phenomenon as opposed to the predations of genuine man-eaters. Matamula at Njombe was merely making the best of a genuine population of man-eaters.
George travelled to Wangingombe in the Njombe district to settle the man-eaters - and Matamula - once and for all. Once the man-eaters were gone, so he hoped, would be a large part of Matamula’s power. On George’s arrival, he heard that one of his scouts had killed a man-eater ten days previously; extrapolating from the decline in killings, George felt that there couldn’t be more than a handful of man-eaters left. Probably because of their depleted social structure, they were now behaving more like rogue lions, and less in concert.
It was a little over a week before George and one of his best scouts cut fresh lion spoor one morning. After a three hour follow-up, they found them - George’s nemesis from that day at Halali, and a smaller female. George’s .404 took the lion through the heart, and his scout dropped the lioness with a simultaneous lung shot. George was pretty sure this was the end of the saga of the man-eaters of Njombe. He was almost right. On his return to Mbeya, he had scarcely reverted back to his normal duties when he received notification that a woman had been killed at Matipu village - but he had taken the precaution of leaving a number of good game scouts in the area, and they followed up and shot the two lionesses responsible. In all, George Rushby had shot fifteen known man-eating lions and five possibles, and the killings ceased. Coincidentally, the Paramount Chief of the district had returned Matamula to his chiefdom. The old scoundrel was therefore free to claim that it was because he now
had that which he desired that he had “called off his lions”. Superstition is a powerful ally among primitive peoples.
Today, the locals have become more sophisticated, but the lions haven’t changed so much. In 1984 I camped for the night near Third Bridge in Botswana’s Moremi National Park on my way into Savuti - in the same spot where a German tourist had recently been dragged from her tent and eaten by a lion - I opted for my sleeping bag across the back seat of the Land Rover that night! According to a Zimbabwe National Parks warden’s report from July of 1997, the locals near the Chirundu border post asked Parks to deal with a midzimu lion that had stalked several people. In 2010 a Zimbabwean professional hunter was called into the Kanyemba area where the mighty Zambezi flows through the convergence of Zimbabwe, Zambia and Mozambique to deal with a number of man-eaters who had killed and eaten five people. Villagers around Mushumbi Pools are living in fear after a pride of lions killed two cattle and five goats, read The Herald in May of 2010. A lioness mauled a man camping at Tashinga in Zimbabwe’s Matusadona National Park on 24 May of this year. The man was dragged out of his A-frame while sleeping, and had to be evacuated by the Medical Air Rescue Service from Bumi Hills. The saga continues into a new century.
After taking one in the brisket, this bull was skillfully hiding in the herd and very difficult to identify. The alert PH saw an ox-pecker land on his back and so identified it to the shooter. Without good comms this would have been a lost bull.
Without good comms from PH Allen Shearing, Paul Van Acker would never have gotten this wise old bull.
By Tanganhamo
By I J Larivers
The safari business in Africa is a totally different issue. Some Americans may even think their African bush experience was, perhaps, over-controlled. Within my five or six favorite hunting destinations in Africa, each and every one has a well-organized PH infrastructure. Each of these organizations has well-established training and evaluation criteria that each prospective PH must complete. This includes both a formal academic curriculum, and a hands-on practical field test requirement. The average length of these professional schools is two weeks. In Zimbabwe, the training requirements, after completion of the formal school, can continue for up to three years of practical field application. I assure you that any African PH worth his biltong is going to be well-trained and highly perceptive to your needs. I can further assure you that he or she will, upon your arrival in camp, whisk you away to the shooting bench before you even have a chance to see your first warthog. Does all this training and practical testing nullify the need for better communications? Not hardly.
Joe Coogan, well-known African PH and journalist recently wrote a very quotable paragraph in his article “Lost in Translation”. This entire thesis was based on the need for clear and concise communication between PH and client. Mr. Coogan had, previously in the story, enumerated some of the more basic needs for non-verbal communication but went even further when addressing the urgent need for clear and concise messages when hunting dangerous game: “When it comes to hunting dangerous game, verbal or spoken communications are often necessary, if not critical, to the success and safety of the hunt. When an experienced hunter is guiding an inexperienced client, many aspects of the hunt require discussion and explanation before, during and after the hunt. This is especially true when moving in close to an animal that is dangerous enough to kill or maim you in an instant.” I agree completely with Mr. Coogan, but would go even further, in that this requirement extends to the most experienced of hunters and includes the pursuit of even the most docile of game.
“Which one should I take?” Queried I.
“Doesn't matter, they are all big,” says he.
Five minutes of complete silence behind the rock then, “here they come!”
Six cows pass into my vision, then four or five calves, and then one of the bulls appeared. My .280 Ackley broke the silence.
“My Gawd, you shot the little one!”,
“What little one?”
Often, overlooked briefing components are merely a mild irritation, but they can also be critical to the hunt and perhaps even life-threatening. About seven years ago, three clients and I were planning an organized assault on a rather nice bevy of elk that were residing on the upper reaches of our hunting area. Opening morning we were out of the lodge 1 ½ hours before daylight and after a 45 minute pick-up ride, I dropped off my clients one at a time and spaced them about a mile apart, along a paved road that bordered our prime elk habitat.
Their briefing instructions clearly stated (or so I thought) for them to wait twenty minutes until first light and then proceed down the hill for a couple of miles.
They were then to hunt the pockets and ridges to the bottom. They were instructed not to cross any roads. When they came to the road they were to stop and wait to be picked up. This should have been about a four-hour soiree. Simple says you (and me)?
At about ten o’clock that night, after 9 ½ hours of searching under every bush on the mountain, we had decided that one of our heroes was indeed lost, abducted, unconscious or deceased. Talk about your cold blankets. I was one truly upset and frantically worried guide. We were about to give up and call the search and rescue posse when Paul had a sudden flash of brilliance and suggested we drive to the main gate and see if anyone has left a note. Sounded crazy to me, but I acquiesced as Paul is bigger than I am. Can you believe it? Three-quarters-of-an-hour later we were reading a message from my wife that all is well and our Hero is back at the lodge having a beer. How in the sam hell could this happen? Easy - just remember old Murphy is alive and well at all times and he is always lying in wait to bite you in the butt. When I had let our hero out of the truck at 0500 that morning, my last words were an admonition not to cross any roads. His perception, somewhat different, was that he was preparing to disembark from an improved tar road and in his minds eye, stomp the bush for the next four or five hours whereupon he would come upon another improved tar road. He would then wait until transportation arrived. This guy is 6'1” and has extremely long legs and can walk quite fast if need be. He marched off the mountain at a dead run, came to the dirt road in about an hour and kept right on marching. All in all he crossed six fences, three dirt roads, the Salmon river and a major highway. He was then picked up by a motorist in a Volkswagen, and driven to the lodge, which is 33 miles from his departure point.
About eight or nine years ago my friend and PH, Allan Shearing, and I were hunting buffalo along the Angwa river in Zimbabwe's Zambezi Valley. The first morning out we had been on a herd of the black beasts for about two hours, when suddenly they decided to take their midmorning siesta. Allen and I, plus trackers and another hunter decided to wait them out.
We found a good observation point in a bit of shade and settled in for the wait.
Several times, a couple of the herd bulls stood up and stretched their legs and promptly plopped back down. Four hours later, with absolutely no preamble, the entire herd leaped up as if they had been spooked by the devil himself. Luckily, rather than spreading out across the veld, they were moving off in single file and would pass within shooting distance of our hiding place. The evening before, Allen and I had gone to the range and wrung the guns out pretty good, so he was well aware of what both the gun and I were (or were not) capable of.
Not being one to take anything for granted, he also took a good deal of time querying me as to what type of bull I would be happy with. When the herd got up and started moving the next day would definitely not have been a good time to have a discussion on the merits of various buffalo characteristics. As a consequence of our previous discussion , when the herd moved past our location Allen was up and ready to call out the position of suitable bulls. “OK, get ready! That fourth one back is a really great old dagga boy. Wait…Wait, let him turn. OK now take him.” At the shot, instead of bolting, they all started to mill about in a huge dusty mass of black. Allen steadfastly continued to study the herd with his 8X50s.
“OK. OK. That's him turning towards us. An oxpecker just landed on his back.”
The oxpecker was clearly visible in my scope and I managed to finish off the critter with a quick shoulder shot. Without clear and concise instructions from Allen I would probably have lost that bull.
The very next day was somewhat similar to the previous. It was now Paul's turn. Again we were lucky and got onto a herd early on. After an hour-and-a-half of marvellous tracking, we had them grazing about a hundred yards below us, in a lush riverine area. Our elevation above the herd gave us a slight advantage but it was going to be difficult to pick out a good bull and stay with him, as the hundred or so grazing animals moved to and fro. Once again, clear and concise communications saved the day. Allen immediately started picking out the good bulls and Paul found himself a good rest up against a handy tree. Allen continued whispering instructions as the herd milled about. As the herd continued to move, Allen gave out excellent instruction as to which bulls were which, and when they were clear of other animals for a safe shot.
When it comes to hunting dangerous game, verbal or spoken communications are often necessary, if not critical, to the success and safety of the hunt. When an experienced hunter is guiding an inexperienced client, many aspects of the hunt require discussion and explanation before, during and after the hunt.
About the Author
Pungubwe is the nom d' plum of Edd S. Woslum, White Bird, Idaho. He is the president of the custom firearms firm of Evolution USA and has an extensive background in various firearms competitions, long-range sniper matches being his number one forte. Edd and Leanne Woslum are also owners and operators of Yellow Wolf Ranch, an Idaho hunting destination for deer, elk, mountain lion and bears. He considers Zimbabwe to be his adopted country and spends considerable time there each year.
africa's professional journal for serious hunters since 1994
Hunters' Resource
africa's professional journal for serious hunters since 1994
africa's professional journal for serious hunters since 1994
On 30 October 2010 Pete Evershed was killed by a lion at Chitake 2 (alternative camp) near the source of the spring in the zambezi Valley.
The circumstances were that the lioness and four subadult cubs were in the vicinity for most of the day. They had an opportunity to attack a herd of buffalo which came to drink but made no attempt which indicates that hunger was not a motive.
At about 4pm I took my clients to the big fig tree on our way to view the sunset later. We had watched the lion with the buffalo in the morning and as expected found them resting on a grassy bank in the shade of the mahoganies at the waters edge. I conducted a walk into the river bed to photograph the lion from across the stream. At 4.41pm the lion started moving up to the terraces of the river bank. Soon after, we left the fig tree and went by vehicle to the baobabs and met Mr and Mrs Zietsman who were staying in Chitake 1 camp. A herd of buffalo was making its way over the hill and we stayed to photograph them in the sunset. We then left the baobabs and drove past the Evershed’s camp and then past the fig tree and saw the lion in a young raintree just beyond the fig.
We continued on to our Camp at Chitake 3. At about 6.45pm we heard the sound of vehicle horns blaring from the Evershed’s camp. I realised immediately that there was a lion problem and within a space of three minutes we were at their camp with my weapons and spotlight.
On arrival we found their two vehicles parked on either side of Mr. Evershed’s body at the shower area. This action had kept the lion away from him. I located the lion walking amongst bushes 10 to 15 metres away and fired a round from my revolver into the air. There was very little reaction to the shot and I found that the spotlight was more effective. With its use there was no sign of aggression or of them stalking us. The lion seemed now to be more interested in the shower and one of them ran off with a towel while another was investigating a bucket. While I concentrated on spotlighting the lion and keeping track of them Mr. Evershed’s body was recovered and we retreated to the camp.
Contributory factors which led to the incident are the somewhat far distance of the shower from the camp, use of the shower after last light in darkness, the lack of a screen barrier, and insufficient lighting of the shower area.
This incident is not a case of some lion being maneaters and others not. It is generally believed that maneaters are old or injured lion that are unable to hunt normal prey. This case shows that all lion, even the habituated ones at Chitake, are potential maneaters – all they need is the opportunity. From the fact that the persons who showered after sunset but before last light were not attacked it is evident to me that if the lion see that you are aware of them they will keep their distance. However, if they see that you are not aware of them the situation is extremely dangerous. At night this means having sufficient light in camp so that they will stay at a safe distance on the periphery. The use of spotlights or good torches to be aware of their presence is important. It may be thought that these lion are now “potential” maneaters because of this attack. The fact that this occurred in the first place shows that they were potential maneaters before the fateful night, so nothing has really changed. For this reason they have not been shot.
The following advice is offered for any who may be in close proximity to lion. Firstly, stay within the camp perimeter at night and have at least one powerful spotlight of 1,000,000 candle power or more, which should be capable of keeping lion at bay. Each person should have a personal torch, good quality and reliable, with replacement batteries. The headlamp type are useful and leave both hands free. There are also very powerful LED hand held torches, some that are able to focus the beam to a spotlight.
There should be at least a few canisters of the fog type pepper spray to be carried by persons going to the toilet or cooking or using the shower. When a person is going to the shower or toilet a careful inspection of the vicinity should be carried out. Lion’s eyes will reflect light so they will be easily seen by the keen observer.
The toilet, shower and kitchen should not be too far from the central area of the camp, and it is advisable to refrain from consuming excessive alcohol. Not only does it impair judgment it also increases the need to visit the toilet after dark.
Keep doors of tents closed even on hot nights – hyena and lion have both entered tents with doors open and attacked the occupants.
Death at Chitake Springs
By Steve Pope
English bureaucracy being what it is, George was directed to return to Mbeya to receive an urgent message - it was that all officers who had not been able to take leave during the war were now, effectively, being given six months more or less forced leave. He was happy to be back in Mbeya in October of that year, and again made the lions his first priority.
I believe it is very important that we understand the dramatic transformation that takes place in the behavioral characteristics of cats - particularly lions - between the hours of daylight and darkness. I have experienced many examples of this during the years that I have spent living in the bush amongst lions.
Lions seem to morph into almost fearless creatures once they are enveloped in darkness. Whilst I must emphasise that it is dangerous to generalise about the behavior of any animal, one is able to identify certain patterns which emerge in the general reaction of certain species to the presence of man.
I am a firm believer that individuals of any of the more advanced species have characters which vary considerably, and have moods – understandable, as such behaviour can be influenced by hormones among other stimuli. The boldness and sometimes aggressiveness of certain sharks is apparently related to the fact that they are reputed to have the highest levels of testosterone of any animal on earth.
During the course of taking almost daily guided walks in the Mana Pools National Park in the Zambezi Valley, I came across lions on numerous occasions. On a good number of these occasions, depending on the distance of the contact between us walkers and the lions, the reaction of the lions varied little - in general, the closer the contact the more agitated the response of the lions. I am happy to say that with the exception of lions protecting a kill or lionesses with cubs, the reaction was the same, i.e. to put distance between us and them.
In many cases, particularly in areas adjacent to the hunting zones, the lions displayed open fear of man and immediately ran away. Further into the park where the lions were more habituated to people and where they were not being hunted, they were much more relaxed and many people I am sure have experienced lions at very close quarters from the safety of a vehicle.
In cases where the walking party unintentionally stumbles upon lions at short distances, either because the lions are sleeping or the walkers have walked over a blind rise with the wind in their faces, the reaction is often an indignant growl/grunt whilst the big cats immediately stand with tails thrashing from side to side. Mostly this reaction will calm to an unhurried walk away on the part of both parties.
However should the contact occur within what I call the lion’s comfort zone, more often than not the pride leader will make a charge at the walkers which normally ends a short distance off, and is what many term a “mock charge” which is in effect a threat display. This is extremely impressive especially from a large maned male and yes, is very frightening.
When darkness falls, this all changes dramatically and Lion-Jekyll turns to Lion-Hyde - they become bold and unafraid.
I have had a number of frightening confrontations with lions at night including cats “swotting” members of our party sleeping around a fire and “patting” and sniffing at tents. The deciding factor in moving these lions away, in all instances has been light and on one occasion fire.
I had one incident, where having completed an afternoon walk, my party remounted our vehicle to return to the camp, some 3km away. The vehicle would not start. The light was fading fast, so, to avoid wasting time I quickly decided to walk back to the camp. This was in the days of no electronic communications and in retrospect, was probably not the correct decision. One of my staff would in due course have suspected there was a problem and because my vehicle was on the road would have come and found us.
At the time, I was not overly concerned, and so set off at a good pace, sticking to open areas whilst urging my somewhat elderly clients to try and get a move on and keep up before complete darkness overtook us.
About 500 metres on, one of my clients said that she thought there was a lion following us! Sure enough there was a lone male, some 120 metres away walking purposefully towards us. I decided immediately that it was the moment to discourage the lion from continuing, and whilst I could still see him. I fired a shot with my .458 about a half metre to the side of the lion. He stopped for about five or six seconds, lowered his head a little, and carried right on walking toward us! Very luckily for me, a short while later one of my staff had come out to find me and we clambered aboard another vehicle. On hearing the vehicle the lion stopped and watched but did not move away.
Dr Jekyll and Mr Lion
By Tich Atkinson
africa's professional journal for serious hunters since 1994
One has to ask, what would have transpired had the other vehicle not arrived? Trying to shoot a determined lion with no light would have been more than a little challenging. Anyone who has been in front of a .458 when it is discharged will tell you that it is an extremely significant report and shockwave – yet this lion was not deterred.
Living permanently in the bush as I did back then, one comes to know the individual lions reasonably well and I had had a good few encounters with this male in the past; many whilst on a vehicle and some whilst on foot. He had mock-charged me on a number of occasions, but always stopped at the shout, a short distance off and then moved away. I never even considered having to pull the trigger during daylight encounters. Such is the effect that darkness has on lions.
Remember, lions own the night and we must take every reasonable precaution during the dark hours. Good light makes all the difference. If you are going to spend time in our (still) magnificent wild places, take with you good lighting of whatever description.
My sincere condolences to Lizzie, Megan and Tom Evershed on the tragic loss of a very fine man who loved these wild places.
By Ganyana
Lion at Night
“Just a cry in the night – then a roar, and a shout,
And the grass springs alight, and the fires blaze out-
Is he here? Is he there? Let us peer, let us stare!
But he’s off to his lair though the scents still about.
Just a rending of flesh and a crunching of bone.
And a Growling Afresh, and a pitiful groan-
Do you hear it – A ssh! How they scramble and push!-
See! There is blood on that bush! Did you hear the man moan?
Not a star in the sky and the moon wasn’t out
When His Lordship went by And there isn’t a doubt
That the poor devil’s dead …he was cooking they said
When he clawed at his head with a deuce of a clout.”
Cullen Gouldsburry - Rhodesian Rhymes
The above poem describes an incident on a police patrol in the Zambezi valley around 1910 - one of the porters being taken by a lion whilst cooking dinner. One hundred years of enlightened human rule, the creation of national parks and safari areas and the passing of many ordinances to protect lion hasn’t had one iota of civilising effect on them. Lion in the Zambezi Valley are the same man-eaters today that they were a hundred years ago - or a thousand for that matter. Man-eaters of Tsavo; Man-eaters of Chirundu, the gravestone marked ‘Killed by a Lion’ at the old Pioneer cemetery at Tuli - all serve to remind us, that, wherever lions occur in any numbers man will feature on their menu sooner or later. And as Tich Atkinson points out in his article, it is always after dark. Shumba has fifth generation night vision and full stealth gear - he is the ultimate ninja of the African veldt.
A couple of years ago we experienced a series of attacks on the Zimbabwe proficiency exam by an old lioness at Chimutsi dam in the Zambezi valley. Early in the evening she had a go at one candidate who was in the shower - she was deterred by appropriate use of a spotlight by one of the camp members whilst the individual target rapidly made his way into a better-lit area and the camp manager fetched a rifle.
Towards midnight she was back and pulled the fly sheet off the pup tent that some of the camp staff were sleeping in and was driven off by a shower of burning brands from the fire thrown by other staff. In the early morning she walked into a tent that had been left open, but the apprentice hunter had already left to go and complete skinning an elephant. She had been hanging around for a few days getting ever bolder and National Parks had finally had enough so she was followed up to a thicket less than 100m from camp and shot. She was a classic case though, old, injured (she had a horn wound through into one lung), broken teeth, etc., and could fairly be said to have been driven to attempt to take a man through sheer hunger. Others I have had to deal with in the same area were in no such need. Lion in the prime of their life, and part of an active pride which had recently killed a young elephant - the young male simply fancied a bit of person to round off the meal. And at night they are bullet-proof - or at least seem to be. Lion are very susceptible to a well placed bullet but when snap shooting at night by the light of headlamp or torch held by another, one’s shooting is seldom up to daytime standard. Once wounded and with adrenaline surging they seem able to absorb an immense amount of bullet energy. Part of this is that tensed muscles are considerably harder than relaxed ones and many soft point projectiles simply blow apart – ones that on a broad side shot on an unaware lion would pass through without hardly expanding. When hit the lion often turn, snapping and snarling to chew at the bullet entry point for a few seconds before returning their attention to you - it is a useful flaw. It gives the bullet time to do its job internally and gives you time to rack another round into the chamber. Then, having shrugged off the bullet, the lion turns, growls, thrashes its tail and comes on anew, only to go down in a heap chewing at the next bullet wound - and then on again until it runs out of blood or a bullet connects the spine. It certainly makes dealing with a known man-eater at night an overly exciting occupation…
“Have you matches? Ah good! And a candle to spare?
I should put on the hood – it’ll lessen the glare.
I’ve the small .303 What have you?
SSG?
Well here’s luck till we see if He’s left us the hair!”
It gives me new respect for those old timers going out with a .303 and a shotgun (loaded with 0 Buck) and candle lamps looking for a lion. Not my idea of a fun evening! Never forget that when you are in the bush, top of the evolutionary tree or not, you are at the bottom of the food chain - “soft and pink with no teeth or claws” as Gary Larson aptly summed it up.
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