Menu
Some use a rifle so they can hunt. Others hunt so they can use specific rifles. Like me, for example.
It was 1995 or thereabouts when NRA launched a publication program featuring reprints of hunting and firearm classics, all nicely bound in pigskin and gold accents and complete with matching silk bookmarks. The first title they republished—and the only one I’ve read multiple times cover to cover—was John Taylor’s African Rifles and Cartridges, a Bible of sorts for British ordnance and terminal ballistics for the Dark Continent. Back then, I was a semi-starving student finishing his MBA at Texas Christian University in Ft. Worth—as far (geographically and financially) from African big-game hunting as any 20-something-year-old will ever be. Yet, this book changed my life.
I saved money each month so I could buy myself a .416 Rigby Ruger No. 1 (which I have since sold)—bought just in case Babar would escape from the local zoo and turn rogue in my white-picket-fenced neighborhood—and got my hands on anything I could read about the Africa of yore. Stigand, Bell, Selous, Patterson—I devoured it all with a zest that only a youthful heart can bestow.
Fast forward more years than I care to count, and safaris have become a reality for me. This year, in particular, I was determined to finish my spiral-horned slam in South Africa with Karoo Wild Safaris, a tremendous outfit with whom I’ve already hunted and that has treated me like royalty while giving me the memories of a lifetime. Karoo Wild is based in the Eastern cape and has access to hundreds of thousands of wild acres teeming with (among other animals) over 40 species of plains game with the highest kudu density in Africa.
Besides the game, obviously a focus of any hunt, my goal was to use my classic rifles. In particular, two rifles that are perhaps (albeit in different ways) the pinnacle of my collection. My passion for hunting has in time turned into a profession within the firearm industry, so I’ve been able to elevate myself a bit higher than eating Ramen noodles and lollypops to save for a whimsical purchase. So a few years ago I decided to buy myself the ultimate rifle—one with which I could hunt anything that walks while experiencing the sweet inebriation of pride of ownership and the joy of giving a soul back to an old classic. This is what I took—for the second time—to South Africa, along with a brand-new (yet older) comrade of which I’ll speak momentarily.
Rifle No. 1: Holland & Holland Falling Block, .375 Flanged Magnum
When it appeared on Gunsinternational, it simply screamed to me. I knew nothing about the seller, but the rifle’s maker, its lines, its description, its caliber, its apparent usability, truly commanded me “make me yours.” And I did. All that I learned afterwards about this incredible rifle, I learned after making the commitment to buy.
The rifle is a Holland & Holland falling block—one of the many variants of the Farquharson action—made in 1925, when this system was well on the wane. The specific design of the action is a Webley & Scott patent (1902), a particularly-strong version of this single-shot system with an automatic shotgun-style tang safety and a perfectly quiet lever operation. The rifle is chambered for the .375 Flanged Magnum Nitro Express, i.e., the rimmed version of the 1912-vintage .375 H&H known to most hunters to this day. It sports a 26” barrel with ramp front and single-leaf rear sight foldable to 50 or 200 yards--and it tips the scales at just shy of 10lbs.
Sometimes after the second world war, this rifle was outfitted with German-style claw mounts, and came to me with a very usable—and nearly 100% ideal—Zeiss Diatal-C 6x32 scope. Alas, the Lyman tang sight with which it was originally sold did not come with the rifle as it arrived to me. One of my missions is to find the correct model and have it re-fitted in the pre-drilled holes behind the safety catch. The original H&H ledger from 1925, of which I have a photocopy, specified that it was custom made for someone named Harper.
One of the many amazing features of this rifles is that it liked the very first handload that I tested it with. A 270-gr Speer boat-tail spitzer pushed at a chronographed 2,430 fps atop 68 grains of Alliant RL-15 delivered just under an inch at 100 yards—and without me even having to touch the scope settings! Five shots grouped nicely about 1 ½” above the bull, giving me a dead-on zero at 200 yards and a mere -3” at 250. Mild, accurate, and in that “magic” zone between 2,000 and 2,400 fps that somehow makes bullets stay together and penetrate.
Lastly, Mr. Wal Winfer, author of British Single Shot Rifles, Vol. 5 – Holland & Holland, thought this rifle noteworthy enough to be listed in his book. As a small concession to personal vanity, I had the silver oval engraved with my initials—otherwise the H&H is 100% unaltered from how I received it.
This is the first rifle I ever took to Africa. It will accompany me there every time. But perhaps it will have to share at least part of the glory with a friend...
Rifle No. 2: Watson Brothers Martini Sporter, .303 British
If you’re like me, you can probably relate. “This is the last rifle I’ll buy because it’s the last rifle I’ll ever need.” And yet, just a few weeks later here you are writing a check to another seller, salivating at the prospect of owning the next “last rifle” in your collection. Such was the case for me when, here on the very pages of AH, a very kind gentleman advertised a Martini-action Watson Brothers sporter in the super-classic caliber .303 British. I knew it had to be mine.
This 1896-vintage rifle has all the features of a classic British stalking rifle—proportions as sexy to me as the measurements of the Venus de Milo. A pistolgrip stock with a trim forend with horn tip, a 23.5” barrel with a full-length rib topped by express leaves graduated to 300 yards and a military ladder-style sight for longer-range shooting—the whole weighing a scant 6.5lbs.
This rifle had to come to Africa with me. Two small issues that would affect my ability to apply for a temporary export license: no serial number and no caliber designation. I decided to solve these problems by having the two numbers etched, tastefully and in the same font as the existing lettering, on the barrel and receiver. The caliber designation now reads. .303 next to the original “nitro proved” wording, while my own birthday, the twentyseventh of August—2708--is inscribed just ahead of the trigger guard as a way of a serial number.
The much harder obstacle to face was the scarcity of components for reloading. I had figured out it liked Federal Power-Shok 174gr factory loads, but the problem was that I only had a box of 20 left and week after week, no matter how hard I searched, I could not find any more. I longed for Hornady’s 174gr round nose Interlock (.312” instead of the more common .311”), but it was sold out even from the factory, with no lots forthcoming prior to my safari. I lucked into three boxes of Hawk 215gr spitzers, but I had scant time to play with different loads before leaving—so I ended up having three boxes of custom-loaded Hornadys expedited from Colorado Custom Cartridge Co., which grouped decently about 1” above the bull at 100 yards. Fingers crossed.
Both my rifles came with the quintessentially-English large swivel eyes—one mounted on the buttstock, one soldered to the barrel—and I furnished them with appropriate tong-style slings tied in the classic three-turn clinch knot. Besides the modern propellants in lieu of cordite, my ordnance for this safari could very well have seen action 100 years ago under the guidance of a Bill Judd or a Philip Percival.
As I locked the Pelican case in preparation for my trip from Virginia to the Eastern Cape, I had designated the H&H as my primary rifle and the Martini as my open-sighted specialty number for bushbuck. What seemed like an eternity later, the South Africa Airlink plane was slowly descending into Port Elizabeth and even the mother of all jet lags could not dampen my enthusiasm and anticipation.
Under that blanket of early-morning clouds, my adventure was about to begin. And my PH—Victor “Iron-Man” Watson of Karoo Wild safaris would be there to collect me for the second time in less than a year. I knew I would love this hunt. What I didn't know (yet) was that one particular day on this hunt would be the absolute best so far in my lifetime.
Part 2: The Martini .303 Gets Its Day
Africa. I couldn't believe I was there again, and back in my "old" cottage from last year too. Cloud nine doesn't begin to describe how I was feeling. But time eventually came to get down to business: one of the first things we did was head to the 100 yard range to check the zero on my rifles. A piece of advice to the readers: never, ever skip this step. Besides the obvious possibility of scopes moving or getting knocked out of zero during flight, the variations in altitude, temperature, and humidity will affect your point of impact, no matter how scientific you were in zeroing your rifle at home. Both of my rifles were shooting 1” to 1 ½” above the bull at 100 yards in Washington, DC. Once I arrived in the Karoo, both were shooting considerably higher. I am fairly scientific about not cleaning and not oiling the bore between my last zeroing session at home and my hunt, so I knew that this difference had to do with other factors—as it is often to be expected.
While with the H&H the problem was easily and quickly corrected with a few clicks of the Zeiss scope, the iron-sighted Martini presented a more unique problem that called for a somewhat creative solution.
Namely, I was shooting with the sights at their lowest-possible setting. These consist of a standing 100-yard shallow express “V” with two folding leaves marked 200 and 300 yards, plus a military-style ladder sight graduated from 300 to 1000 yards. I had therefore only two options: either use the elevation equivalent of “Kentucky windage” by placing the front sight lower in the rear “V” or by deliberately aiming lower on the animal; or build up the front sight by attaching an object of some thickness to it. We decided to perform some good old-fashioned bush gunsmithing and build up the front sight.
Victor had a length of metal wire and some strong glue. I had my multiplex Swiss Army knife with a good metal file. Eureka! We cut a small length of this wire, roughly matching the size of the flat-tipped front sight; I carefully filed a flat bottom on this length of wire, and we glued it on. After heading back to the range and firing a few shots, I established that the 300 yard leaf—or safer yet for walking through acacia thornbush, the military-style ladder at its lowest setting—gave me the same point of impact that I had back at home, namely 1” high at 100 yards. Victor gave it a go as well to make sure we were both on the same page, and we called the experiment a success.
On the way back to the lodge or Lapa, Victor gave me an interesting insight as to what the old timers would do. There is an indigenous shrub called milk bush (Euphorbia trigona), which looks like an explosion of asparagus spears. As Victor explained, in the old days shooters and hunters would break off a spear from this bush and use the thick milky substance it contains “to whiten the front sight of their .303.” Not just of any rifle, but “of their .303.” As I diligently proceeded to whiten the recently-fashioned front sight “of my .303” with the same time-honored procedure, I somehow felt more authentic and more in the spirit of the hunt I was about to embark on.
That night I had the pleasure to see the lovely Mrs. Watson, who had been on an errand during my arrival. Lindsay Watson is synonym of “hospitality” in my book. An ever-interesting conversation partner with a wonderful sense of humor, a thoughtful and considerate hostess that treats you like family, a fantastic cook and someone with whom it is genuinely nice to spend time—I was very happy to see her again.
The morning after, as I had told the Watsons, I did not want a big breakfast because I just couldn’t wait to hunt. After a cup of coffee, Victor, our tracker Mitchell—whom since last year’s adventure I had nicknamed “Infallible”--my Martini and I were on the Toyota heading for a property where bushbuck is known to appear at given times of the day. The early-morning drive gave me an opportunity to delight myself in an African sunrise--always one of God's pictorial masterpieces, even when viewed through a windshield.
The property is a vast series of alfalfa fields running along the Little Fish river. The fields slope gently towards the water, which is bordered on both sides by rather dense bush in which the animals lay up. While on the way, Victor was telling me that we had probably missed the early window in which these habit-driven animals come out to feed, and that we probably would have to wait a few hours for them to hopefully show themselves again. No matter, I was so excited to be there and to be hunting that I would have waited motionless until dark that evening if that meant... well, if that meant continuing to hunt. As we were parking and getting out of the truck, I remembered the wonderful words of philosopher José Ortega y Gasset, words that I live by when I'm in the field—“One does not hunt in order to kill; one kills in order to have hunted.”
But on that day, goddess Artemis had decreed that I wouldn’t have to wait long for my bushbuck. We were walking the dirt road roughly 100 yards parallel to the river, on our left, when Mitchell abruptly halted, dropped to a crouching position and pointed: there was a fantastic bushbuck ram exploring the edges of the thickets bordering the river. I quickly loaded the .303 as Victor was setting up the shooting sticks. The ram was starting to walk back into the bush, presenting me with a quartering-away shot. The Martini’s trigger broke crisply and the thwack! of the 174gr Hornady round nose was unmistakable.
We ran to the animal, and sure enough it was a beautiful one. It had fallen exactly where I had hit him. The bullet had penetrated his left flank and exited just shy of the right shoulder, leaving an exit hole through which I could comfortably insert my index finger.
This gorgeous ram was not only my third spiral horned animal after last year’s nyala and kudu. But it was a wonderful way to bloody the old 1896 Watson Brothers Martini .303 that I had only recently purchased—and that I had gotten to shoot after so many problems with finding ammunition, as well as after the adventure with the high point of impact and the improvised front sight. Here is a well-deserved posed picture with the bushbuck, myself and Victor "The Iron Man," with whom all this wouldn't have been possible.
On the way back, Victor told me that they would let the meat hang for a few days and that it would be very likely that by the end of my hunt, I would be able to taste the bushbuck. The idea of this bushbuck plus one of Lindsay Watson’s magic recipes made me even giddier—if that was at all possible after the day’s adventure. That evening, some fantastic kudu biltong washed down by some crisp South African Chardonnay was the overture of the festivities, which consisted in a trio of meats from kudu, bushbuck and springbuck.
In the morning, I would hopefully be able to catch up to the zebra that had eluded me the year before. I knew it would be an arduous hunt, since in this area they tend to stay at higher elevations and outside of rifle range. This would be a job for the H&H, which I readied for the next day’s hunt.
Part 3: Zebra and Stars
I am a superstitious man to begin with. Doubly so when I’m hunting. The things I wear and carry, the little rituals, the signs and omens from my surroundings—they all speak to me of what may or may not happen. That morning while I got dressed I looked at my Holland & Holland .375 falling block and a rush of optimism swept over me.
Mind you, I knew that it wouldn’t be easy. Zebra had eluded both me and my buddy Joe the year before, but I had the "Iron Man" and “Infallible” on my side. I knew that it woud be physically challenging. The terrain would call for lots of brisk uphill walking, but I had spent the last several months training hard and keeping myself in shape. And I knew that if I even got a glimpse of my quarry, shots would have to be taken quickly and without much thinking. Zebra are very alert and prone to flight, but I had the most ideal rifle I could think of—my classic single shot H&H, a tack-driver that fits me like a glove and that I shoot with the utmost confidence.
We began the stalk in a little donga or dry riverbed on Victor’s property early in the morning. As we glassed the hill, the gigantic shadow we projected in the early light looked like the apparition of some primitive earth-deity searching for a treasure deep in the bowels of the mountain. On the other side of the hill, Mitchell was tracking a small group of zebra that he had seen shortly before we set off. The silence was only broken by the occasional crackling of the two-way radio Victor was carrying, along with the whispered “Mitchell, kom in” followed by the epigrammatic reports in Afrikaans from the tracker.
A note about silence. When I talk about silence, I’m not merely talking about any silence. I’m talking about African silence. Karoo silence. Not a leaf stirs—not that there are many leaves to stir in that semi-desertic landscape. Imagine being transported to a modern-art museum and suddenly finding yourself in a Salvador Dalí painting, in another dimension where sound is unknown. That kind of silence. You can actually hear your heart beat behind your mandibular bone, slightly under your ears. It has to be experienced to be believed.
Back to the real world: nope. As Mitchell reported, the zebra he had seen had simply evaporated. Accordingly, the three of us hiked back to the Toyota and had a little conversation about the next tactic to employ. We would hunt a high hill where, the preceding year, Joe and I had taken our first crack at kudu—seeing some in the distance but not being able to get a shot.
After a very short drive, we hiked the steep trail leading to the top of the hill. I kept my eyes up, combing the surroundings for any sign of game while I climbed. The Courteney "Safari" boots gave me a firm purchase on the steep ground and I was proud of myself for keeping up with the Iron Man without too much struggle. Slung on my shoulder, the H&H seemed to push me up and forward as if it knew that something ahead was going to be memorable.
We eventually got to a little flat clearing on the top of the hill. Almost immediately, Victor and Mitchell pointed to a nearby height where a small group of zebra had briefly halted to take a better look our way and figure out who or what we were. There were three of them, just a touch over 200 yards away according to the rangefinder built into Victor’s Leica binoculars. He pointed to the middle one as the best animal while he set up the quad shooting sticks. He watched somewhat in trepidation (as he admitted later) as I calmly—perhaps too calmly!--loaded the H&H and settled the splinter forend on my left hand, which in turn rested on the forward platform of the sticks. As the crosshairs locked on the animal’s left shoulder, I squeezed the trigger and I had a good feeling that I had sent the 270gr Speer true and straight on its way. Sure enough, we hiked up to the zebra and there she lay—a beautiful mare with just an entry hole on her left shoulder.
After Mitchell had field-dressed the animal, I took some pictures of my nice classic rifle as it leaned against the zebra. A little inner voice told me that in the next year or so, a beautiful zebra-skin rifle case will be the new home of this incomparable rifle.
Back in camp, an absolutely spectacular kudu burger was waiting for me, along with what is perhaps my beverage of choice—a nice cold diet soda.
Later, instead of the usual 1-3PM siesta, I decided to venture behind my cottage and hike the kopje or hillock adjacent to camp, atop which stands the Wi-Fi tower installed by the Watsons. As I gained more and more elevation, the camp and the surrounding landscape yielded a tremendous view, until I made it to the top and was able to take a few panoramic shots. This image shows the Watsons' camp along with the nearby hills and the dirt roads that spider-web their huge property. In the center is the lapa or main building where the kitchen, office, and entertainment area are located; lower and to the right are the four thatched cottages, with the one I occupied being the lowermost and farthest from the lapa.
That night, Lindsay, Victor and I had a spirited discussion on the relative merits of kudu, eland and springbuck meat (which one do you find most delicious?). We did so over a Cape Malay dish called bobotie, consisting of spiced ground meat in an egg-based crust with a tasty accompaniment of chutney, rice and banana. Here is a picture of a particularly lovely Mrs. Watson along with the day's culinary masterpiece she created.
As this fantastic day drew to a close, I ventured back to my cottage. I had asked the Watsons to keep the camp lights off because a colder front was coming in and I wanted to experience one more thing on this unforgettable day: the African starlight. It is amazing that even with a cell phone--and no enhancement!--I was able to snap this shot of the firmament, with the Milky Way clearly visible in the center. Africa has so many gifts to give, even besides the hunting.
The plan for the next couple days included both some sight-seeing and the crown jewel of my pursuit: an eland, with which I would complete my 4-animal spiral horn slam. Would I be able to get a shot at one? And would it be a job for the H&H or, as Victor encouraged me to do, would I take it with the open-sighted Martini .303? Even I didn’t know. Yet.
Part 4: A Bit of Italy Comes to the Eastern Cape. A Glorious Hunting Day
Much More than Hunting
There is something about a whole family and camp staff spoiling you as the only guest. Not talking about as the only hunter—but rather as the only guest in the whole camp. This is why after a few days, I felt like doing something for my hosts in return. Yes, I know. I’m not strictly a guest—I’m a paying client; but the Watsons really go out of their way for their safari customers, so I was determined.
The specific idea came to me one evening when Lindsay Watson and I were teasingly challenging each other to define Italian risotto and pinpoint the main difference between it and any other rice dish—much to the amusement of Victor who seemed to be enjoying the debate with an amused grin on his face. As the far superior cook, she was defending her position masterfully and parry-riposting all my arguments with the adroitness of a D’Artagnan. I even rolled out the argumentum ad auctoritatem as someone who still holds Italian citizenship, but man, is she a good debater!
So we were both playfully but tenaciously defending our positions when,
Me: OK, how about I show you what I mean? All you need to do is let me use your kitchen for one evening.
Her: Hah, you think you can, eh? And why should I trust you with my kitchen?
Me: Oh, yes, I think—rather, I know I can. Question is, can you find the ingredients around these parts?
Her: I can find anything I need and more, thank you very much!
Me: Well, then the challenge is on! Let’s shake on it: tomorrow it is, then!
The next evening I turned my Lombard accent up a notch and, under her attentive eye, prepared a bacon and mushroom risotto that came out nicer and creamier than any I’d cooked before. I was extremely pleased to see the Watsons enjoy it. I had finally managed to do something for them!
The Hauntingly Beautiful Graaff-Reinet
Incidentally, while on a hunt for the ingredients, Victor had driven me to the nearby town of Graaff-Reinet where I got to spend a few extremely enjoyable hours sight-seeing. Founded by the Dutch East India Company towards the end of the 18th century, today Graaff-Reinet is a gorgeous old town of approximately 35,000 souls, chock-full of charm and history. Its architecture, with its clean white lines and old-timey Dutch aesthetics, stands out as one of the most unique I’ve ever seen. Historically, the town was not only one of the main starting points of the Great Trek, but played a key (and tragic) role in the Second Boer War of 1901—one of the most interesting chapters in modern military history and one that I urge my AH friends to learn more about.
The interiors were just as fascinating as the exteriors. Here are some photos of the truly spectacular Drostdy historic hotel, where Victor and I also sat down for a great meal.
And of course, a visit to the historical firearms museum was an absolute must. They had everything of interest to an African hunter and lover of firearm history--from the flintlock elephant guns carried by the early settlers to the Mauser and Martini rifles used in the Boer War.
The Best Hunting Day in My Life
As my visit to South Africa was drawing to a close, I still had an important item on my list: an eland. Much like the zebra, the massive spiral-horned ungulate had eluded both me and my friend Joe the year before.
While discussing the upcoming drive to another concession—spanning an impressive 400,000 acres—Victor urged me to take both my H&H and the .303 Martini, with which he hoped I would bag my eland. Now and then during the morning drive, he would nudge me with his elbow and challenge me to only take the Martini upon my next trip to the Eastern Cape. I started as unmoved, then shifted to doubtful, then to merely wavering. By the end of the drive, I was looking forward to a one-gun 2023 safari with that sleek, trim, open-sighted 1896 classic. Such is the power of the Iron Man’s persuasion
We made it to the new camp in the early morning. It’s as if someone had picked up a period cottage from Graaff-Reinet and plopped it in the middle of the veldt, together with its nicely-manicured lawn and the ancient, monstrous Brazilian pepper trees around it.
Here I also reunited with an old acquaintance, the tracker Michael, whose favorite game to hunt (much to my appreciation) is in fact the massive Taurotragus oryx. Taurotragus oryx. What a funny binomial nomenclature for the eland. Classical education kicking into auto-pilot. Taurus means bull, as in a male bovine. Tragus means goat, as in a goat. Oryx means, well, oryx, as in the gemsbok. That day, then, I would pursue a “Bull-goat gemsbok.” And I had the best-possible team to help me do so: Victor, Mitchell, and Michael.
Primal Images; Through a Maze of Dongas
We set out immediately after arriving. The air was still and crystal-clear, with visibility extending as far as the eye can see. The terrain there consists of a vast—and I mean vast—crater-like flat in the shape of a circle, surrounded by a ring of mountains called Camdeboo.
While beginning the stalk, we saw giraffe, warthog, springbuck as well as, far, far in the distance, a single row of elephant silently coming down an impossibly steep hill. The kind of sight that, in a dream, would activate what Carl Jung called an archetype—a powerful image that awakens millennia of primal symbols from our collective unconscious. Animals. Venturing into unknown lands. The chase, or what we evolved to do as humans. I released any type of sentient thought and let that image and those ancient voices speak to me. Yes, hunting is also that, if we learn to listen.
Back from my state of semi-consciousness, the Martini’s stock was tapping my back to the rhythm of my steps. Ahead of me, Victor was carrying my H&H just in case the eland would present us with a shot too far or too tricky for open sights. He and Michael would occasionally stop and glass in the distance, but so far, no eland. Meanwhile, Mitchell had remained somewhat behind and in radio contact with Victor, to alert us of any eland he may see. So far, silence.
After a few hours’ stalking, we decided to use the cover of a maze of dongas or dry creek-beds and scour the surroundings for our quarry, to lessen the imponderables of the day’s shifting breeze. At long last, in the early afternoon, we finally spotted a herd of eland about 500 yards away. The first sight of your prey: that’s when joyful expectation becomes relentless determination.
Michael’s tracking skills and knowledge of the terrain shifted into overdrive, and so did my desire to obtain this animal. For about an hour, we negotiated a labyrinth of deep dongas—or was it the same one that wound and wound its way through the plain? I was too happy and single-minded to notice.
Eventually, Victor and Michael peered over a high, natural parapet reminiscent of a trench: about 200-210 yards away were the eland. One, two, three, more. Some would be wholly concealed by acacia and gwarri bushes. No telling how many of them there were.
Conditions were perfect, save for a breeze that was deceitfully fishtailing hither and thither and making it impossible for us to even dream of getting closer. No place of concealment existed between us and the game—a perfect flat, almost wholly bereft of vegetation, separated us from the group of eland. That’s when I reluctantly put away the .303 and unzipped the case containing the H&H—reluctantly because I knew that Victor hoped for me to use the little Martini. But he knew that at that distance, with the animals so numerous and all partially or totally concealed, a telescopic sight would be near irreplaceable.
That’s when something unexpected happened. Almost as if obeying a telepathic command, the eland all lay down, all at the same time.
“If you’ll love the next few hours—said Victor—you’ll definitely love buffalo hunting.”
And love the next few hours I did. Victor, Michael and I watched the herd relentlessly. Unfortunately, my camera phone did not have a long enough lens to take a photograph of what we had our binoculars locked into. This quick sketch, which I made upon my layover in Doha on the way back, gives a fair idea of what we were looking at for all that time.
The sketch shows two animals. Directly in front of us and slightly to the right lay, almost totally concealed, what appeared to be an eland with unusually long horns. We could only see the top of his head with those incredibly developed points. We temporarily got very excited about this animal and we decided that, once he stood up, he would be the one to take. To our left of him was another bull with shorter horns but perhaps better mass. We could see his whole head while his body lay concealed by the same bush that covered the front of his comrade. The other eland in the herd sat farther to our right, and Victor and Michael concluded that they didn’t see one worth taking among that wing of the herd. We knew, however, that there were some more—only, we could not see them.
As the minutes turned into hours, the euphoria in me only increased. That was pure, unadulterated hunting pleasure. A group of fabulous animals in front of me, the electrifying wait, the anticipation of them eventually standing up. And yes, of course, my classic rifles. After some time, Michael noticed that the left horn of the one we were looking at as our animal may have a couple inches missing. We debated whether it was still worth choosing, since Victor knows that I have absolutely no qualms about taking what others would consider an imperfect animal. Would it be this one? Pity about the horn, eh? Would the other be a safer bet? Still both fantastic beasts.
More time passed. And more yet. A fly kept landing under the brim of my hat. An omen, perhaps? An inquisitive giraffe was slowly coming in from our right, between us and the eland. Maybe he would prompt the herd to stand up? That’s when it happened, and it happened all in mere seconds.
Just as simultaneously as the whole group had sat down hours before, it stood up—and there were so many more than we had seen! They were barely on their feet when Victor pointed to a new member of the herd with great horns who was briefly appearing behind his broken-tipped comrade. “Take that one!” With no time to think, I disengaged the safety of the H&H, and as the terrain was too uneven to open the quad sticks, quickly steadied three fingers of my supporting hand around one of the sticks and cradled the rifle’s forend between my thumb and index. As the shot rang, pandemonium ensued with the whole herd bolting towards our left—it was impossible to distinguish our animal among that hurtling river of tawny.
We jogged to the spot where the eland had been hit. It was lying there, with a tiny entry hole right at the top of his shoulder. I had finished my spiral-horned slam!
The very low-tech, some would say boring, lowly Speer 270gr boat-tail spitzer that I’ve been using for years was recovered from under the skin of the animal’s right shoulder. It had mushroomed perfectly and stayed together beautifully. The reading on my RCBS mechanical scale put it at 259gr. I won’t switch bullets or loads any time soon.
And, of course, I added another (mental only!) notch to my classic H&H, a rifle that I am genuinely awed to have and that gives me the utmost pleasure and confidence. A safari is a wonderful experience. A classic rifle safari is pure delight. I had given two gunmaking masterpieces their soul back; and they had helped me uncover something more about mine.
Conclusion
Perhaps I’m lucky. When God distributed buck fever, I must have been out spending a penny. Instead of that, my expectation manifests itself in incredible joy. Since the anticipation before this shot had lasted a good five hours, it’s easy to imagine the kind of high I had been on pretty much all day.
Soon after, Mitchell had also shown up together with the skinning crew, all grinning ear to ear and letting out the occasional eeeeeh! as they took the eland to get butchered, no doubt thinking ahead of many a good feast on that plentiful, delicious meat. As the whir of the skinners’ pickup faded in the distance, it was silence once again. Happy silence. Victor, Michael and I, tired but walking on clouds, hiked slowly back to the faraway Toyota. We walked towards the West, in front of a setting sun that reflected its golden rays on the sand, near the still water of a stream.
“Michael?”
“Sir?”
“Thank you.”
“For what, sir?”
“You, Victor and Mitchell gifted me with the best hunting day in my life.”
“I’m glad. It was a great day for me too, sir.”
