‘What’s my set up need to be?’ was the question offered by an excited client on the other end of the phone. ‘Heavy,’ was my response. For months Joe and I had spent hours on the phone as he peppered me with questions regarding his upcoming bowhunt for Cape Buffalo. With his New England accent, most of my time was spent deciphering his dialect but eventually, we got all the questions answered and all the preparations made.
I was happy to meet Joe as he arrived in our bush camp, big and brawny, with a wingspan like a condor. ‘Now here’s man that can handle the heavy bow,’ I thought. After the obligatory salutations, Joe reached into his bow case and presented for my approval, his monstrosity of a bow. 90lbs of killing machine, with an axle-to-axle length of 44”, and a draw length of 32”, the bow held heavy in my hands. Reaching into the case again, Joe pulled from its clutches a full length, 1000 grain aluminum projectile topped with a razor sharp, two blade, steel broadhead. This was an impressive arsenal for 1997 and with it, we hoped to survive the next few days as we pursued ‘black death’ in and out of the thickets of the lowveld. ‘Think that will do it?’ he grinned, knowing that his stick was exactly what we’d discussed. ‘Provided we find a willing participant,’ I quipped back. The rest of the evening was filled with stories and jokes around the fire as we both anticipated the upcoming adventure. Hunting buffalo with a bow and arrow…what could go wrong?
The next morning was brisk, with a hint of frost upon the ground. As we loaded the bakkie and prepared for the day’s events, I told Joe that we’d first get in a few shots with his bow to make sure all was still good to go with his equipment. ‘Whack’, struck the first arrow, its momentum carrying it thru the foam target and up to the fletching. ‘Whack’, the second arrow struck colliding with the first as it too smoothly penetrated the block. ‘I think you’re good,’ I said, happy with my client’s shooting abilities. ‘Now if you can do that while shaking uncontrollably and pinching your butt cheeks together, we might stand a chance.’ Joe laughed out loud as his long form climbed the steps of the cruiser and positioned himself on the frost covered seat.
The drive was a bit far on the large reserve we were hunting, and our PH Jaco and I passed the time by discussing the hunt and what we might encounter. Eventually we came to our first waterhole where we scoured the area for fresh tracks. Finding nothing suitable, we remounted the bakkie and proceeded to the next one. In about two hours’ time, we came across a natural pan that was littered with buffalo spoor. From here, we found a nice, saucer of track, square toed and heading off alone, into a western block of thorns and sickle bush. ‘Let’s walk this one,’ I said, the temptation of seeing the old brute at the end of this track too much to pass up.
About a quarter mile into the track, we found the bull as he joined a herd of others, the lot of them feeding within a small marshy bottom which fed into a dense thicket. I sized the bull up and after conferring with our PH Jaco, we decided to give him a pass. He was an old, mature buffalo but his horn shape was flat across the tops with no drops whatsoever. We could do better.
The next few days we continued spotting, tracking, crawling, and being ‘busted’ by a few hundred buffalo. With a rifle, we’d had our trophy by day three, but a bowhunter must be very close and have an unobstructed path for his arrow to fly true. It’s a very difficult thing to stalk within 25 yards of an ever-wary buffalo but that was the mission, and we were determined to accomplish it.
Day four broke with a sunlit horizon and steady wind whistling through the camp. A good, constant wind is always a bonus when stalking as the sounds made by the rustling of the leaves and grass help cover a hunter’s approach. Like all the previous mornings, we began by sorting tracks found at the waterholes. We were lucky this day as we found the perfect track at our second stop, fresh and still wet with the mud gathered and dropped from an enormous, blunted foot clearly visible, the sun’s rays glistening off the undried clay. ‘Bingo,’ I thought. We had found this bull early enough so that he was only about an hour or so in front of us. We’d need to move at a careful but steady pace to close the gap before he bedded.
Walking track is always exciting for the first mile or so but with each passing step afterwards, it can become a bit tedious. Step after step we continued, the midday sun beginning to take a toll on our sweat covered bodies. This bull had not meandered and fed as we expected, but had moved steadily in one direction, determined to get somewhere quickly. Around 11am we stopped and found a bit of shade where we’d lunch and rest until about 2 or so before continuing. I figured this buffalo would eventually bed down and following a track midday is pointless as tracking them to their beds will nearly always result in being ‘busted’ by an alert and usually, unseen animal. Fortunately for us, this bull was alone which increased our odds greatly and I didn’t want to blow it by stumbling onto him. We’d rest now and refocus our efforts in the afternoon.
At 2:30, I rose and put on my Courtney’s, the laces worn but still holding together. The old boots and I had shared many a mile at this stage and though blemished and faded, the tough Zimbabwean leather showed no signs of quitting. ‘If you can do it, so can I,’ I thought, chuckling to myself. I gathered the group and now fresh from our respite, hit the track again determined to see what lay at the end. Our tracker Samuel led the way with Jaco close behind. Joe followed Jaco and I, as usual, brought up the end of the procession. We snaked our way through the thick bush weaving and bobbing to miss the ever-present sickle thorns determined to pierce everything they contacted.
Onward we trudged, the pace a bit quickened now as we needed to close on the bull before darkness deterred our efforts. The buffalo seemed to be making for a large, open section of fields, strategically positioned in the center of the reserve’s thickest and thorniest block. Time and again a thorn would snag a loose, hanging shirt corner, hampering our movements, but through it all we pushed on. Just as the last minutes of daylight forced its way into the tangles of bush, Samuel raised his hand and slowly pointed to our front. There he was, muddy and damp from a recent wallow, the object of our march. As he fed along the edges of the fields, I admired the massive beast before us, his hard bossed horns the prominent feature adorning his bulbous head. Jaco smiled as he turned to Joe and gave him a slowly turning thumbs up. We were going to give him a go.
We moved quickly to gain a favorable shooting position, the terrain in our favor as we could use the thickets to move onto the flank of the bull, the wind perfect for the maneuver. We crawled around to the right using the wind and noise of the feeding buffalo to full advantage. Our final approach was slow but deliberate, the unsuspecting bull fully occupied with consuming the fresh grass before him. We crept up to twenty yards, but the slowness of our movement had taken time and only the last few minutes of shooting light remained. Getting into position alerted the bull and as he turned to stare at us, Joe raised and settled his twenty-yard pin onto the shoulder of the broadside beast and released the shaft. The arrow flew with dart like precision, finding its mark and burying up to the visible white fletching. We had done it!
With a thunderous surge, the death-stricken buffalo spun to his left and crashed through the thickets directly opposite of our position. We all stood quietly in place, straining to hear the sure to come death bellow of a dying buffalo but all was silent. Minutes passed and only the sounds of the night seeped through the thorns. Having viewed the shot, I assured Joe that the buffalo was fatally hit and that we would certainly find him the following morning. We just needed to now mark the position and find our way back to camp.
The following morning was met with exuberant anticipation as we loaded up and headed to the place of the buffalo’s last track. All of us expected to find the bull dead within a few hundred yards but when those yards grew into miles, we knew we had a problem. How this old buff could still be on his feet was a complete mystery as the shot could not have been more perfect, or so we thought.
On we pressed, the track easy to follow with the sporadic drops of blood further assurance of our route. When we stopped for lunch, Joe queried me about the situation and for once, I had no answers. I replayed the shot over and over in my head and after each sequence, the same conclusion was met, dead buffalo. Picking up the track after lunch, we continued until darkness forced us back to camp, the ride giving me time to re-evaluate our predicament.
The next day reality hit us hard as we knew the buffalo wasn’t yet dead and that something had gone wrong in our evaluation. Before returning to the track, our PH phoned a pilot nearby and asked if he was available to give us a hand. The pilot had a microlight aircraft and might possibly be able to spot the bull and direct us to his whereabouts. Fortunately, his response was positive as he told us he could be on site within the hour. “Great!” I thought, the knowledge of ‘eyes in the sky’ giving all of us a boost of confidence.
About an hour or so back on the track, we heard the whining pitch of the little micro’s engine as it slowly crept towards us, circling like a vulture waiting on the currents to lift it up into the air. After spotting us, the tiny aircraft floated away, its aerial survey and search underway. All our fingers were crossed as it flew from sight.
“I have a buffalo spotted here, down by the river,” crackled the handheld, our pilot reporting on the other end. “He’s lying down with his head swaying from side to side. Something’s not right with him.” “On our way,” we replied, new hope and determination forefront in our actions. The river was miles from us so we backtracked to the truck and headed towards it as fast as the terrain would allow. “I’m circling the bull now,” reported our pilot, his voice and signal now stronger than before. We parked the cruiser and began moving rapidly towards the sounds of the engine hovering above.
About a quarter of a mile in, we spotted the aircraft slowly circling a specific spot along the banks of the murky water. “He’s directly below me,” came the report, “doesn’t seem to have any interest in me.” Once the location was pinpointed, we waved the plane off and began our slow traverse to the buffalo. This had to be him.
The three of us moved like soldiers as we crawled into the high grass leading to the river. We snaked our way ever closer, eyes and ears on full alert. When we could hear the faint sounds of the slow-moving water, we peered over the grass and saw what the pilot had reported, a bedded buffalo moving his head back and forth in a precise, methodical sway. “It’s him,” I whispered to our PH, his binos trained on the bull. “Yes, most definitely,” he replied.
With Joe by my side, I moved forward and the three of us proceeded, anticipating another opportunity with the bow. We closed the distance to within thirty yards but before any further progress could be made, the wind shifted, a slight breeze hitting the back of my neck and filtering its way to our wounded bull.
With a tremendous surge, the buffalo gained his feet and quickly sorted out our location. Though mortally wounded, he charged his last, determined to go out on his feet. At ten steps the sound of Jaco’s .458 echoed down the river as the buffalo fell, a warrior till the end. It was over.
When we arrived at the skinning shed, we all stood by, anxious to see why the arrow hadn’t killed the beast initially. Once the lungs were removed, our amazed faces couldn’t fathom what we were seeing. Before us on the ground were two pierced lungs, one green and totally collapsed and the other only three quarters collapsed, a hint of red still visible in the frontal lobe. The buffalo had survived a double lung shot for two days on one partial lung which hadn’t fully succumbed to the perforation of the two-blade head. I have never seen such a will to live in anything else. Cape Buffalo are different and my respect for them only continues to grow with each passing year on the track. They just don’t come any tougher.
