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Hunting story that hasn't been published yet! - PHOTO

25K views 7 replies 7 participants last post by  RWH 
#1 · (Edited)
Hello Gents,

Per the recent request, here is a hunting story that I wrote a while back that hasn't been published yet. It may end up in a book that I have been asked to write, but we'll see? Either way with my current schedule, that project at best is still a ways off!

I'll try and dig up the photos that go with this story when I get home.

Enjoy!


Casull in Africa!

ARRGGGHH!!!!……..bite your tongue!………quiet! For the third time that morning, it struck me again that the next trip out would find a pair of kneepads in my Safari case! I plucked the Acacia thorn out of my right knee. We were about 100 meters into what we expected would be a 200 meter crawl………No……we aren’t talking about another bizarre new Olympic event, this was just a wee bit more dangerous than that. My good friend and professional hunter Dudley and I were very slowly working our way, snake-style, into the middle of a herd of what we guessed must be at least 200 Cape Buffalo. The herd was returning from the shallow waters along the shore of Lake Carribba. They grazed slowly as they covered the 2 mile stretch of flood plain that separated the shores of the lake from the wall of Jess and scrub Mopane, punctuated by the occasional Acacia tree, that signaled the high water mark of the lake following each years rainy season. However, the lake had receded to it’s lowest point of the year, exposing rich expanses of brilliant green grass that sprouted across the rich, fertile flood plain under the hot African sun.

It was November and we had come to Sengwa on the Zimbabwe side of Lake Carribba to close out five left over buffalo permits that would revert back to the Game Department in January in the event that the permits were not filled. I love a challenge, so why not help out an old friend, Rupert Vanderitte in this case, and clean up five buffalo permits in as many days? Tough duty, but somebody had to do it! Two of the five permits were for trophy bulls while the other three were for non-trophy bate animals with a linear spread of less than 38”.

We had walked along in the edge of the Jess, a thick spreading bush that grows in thickets across much of Southern Africa. It was late season and the thick scrub was devoid a leaves. Even so, it grows from thick clumps upward in a fan like pattern and even without leaves, if you are not crouched down or on your hand and knees, you can barely see through the damn stuff, hence the later Olympic 200 meter crawl! We paralleled the herd as they grazed diagonally from right to left across the open expanse of grass towards heavy cover, where they would lie down in the shade to escape the afternoon heat.

We stayed between a 100 and 150 meters back into the tree line as we moved slowly on a linear path that would intersect the herd of buff as they entered the cover provided by the thick wall of Jess. At that point, we hoped to be in a position that would allow us to remain stationary as the herd grazed directly into us. In this manner, we hoped to get close………..reeeaaallly close!

The reason for this was simple. I was armed with a .454 Casull, stoked with 360-grain hand-loaded jacketed solids and sporting iron sights. Having been a long time handgun hunter, I had always wanted to try my luck with a Buff or two, and as things were shaping up right now, I would have at least 200 of them to choose from! Our entire party consisted of my partner Richard, our close friend and staff hunter Dudley, along with my old friend Joe Ellithorpe, the former owner of the excellent Pony Express Sport Shop, formerly to be found in Van Nuys, California. Joe was along to help with the clean up. It was the second time he had been to Zim with me and we had had such a wonderful time together the first trip, I thought of him right away when we were offered the close out deal by Rupert. Knowing that Joe owned his own business certainly increased the likelihood that he could get away on short notice.

Pony Express in its day was one of the finest gun shops to be found in the Greater Los Angeles area. Sad to say, it was forced out of business by a series of city ordnances designed to make gun shops too expensive to operate and still make a profit! Bastards! Another fine example of stymieing the will of the people in a manner that circumvented the ballot box! Excuse me for that out-burst! I digress……………

Rounding out the group were two of our best Metabele trackers Clever Nyubi, Scotch Mpofu and one of Rupert’s game scouts, a local Tonga by the name of Dandy. We had discussed the handgun hunt in general terms over breakfast and as the situation developed, somehow came to the conclusion that Dudley would make the stalk with me with his trusty .458 Lott slung across his back and more importantly, with our then new “high” 8mm video camera in hand. We were all anxious to catch this event on film and Dudley was either just brave enough or just foolish enough to crawl into a herd of Buffalo with me and my popgun! Dandy went nuts and refused to participate when he realized that I intended to shoot a Buff with my revolver in spite of the comments made by both Scotch and Clever, both of whom had been with me before when I shot Kudu, Wildebeest and Zebra with the iron sighted Casull.

We moved slowly along a game trail, stopping occasionally to squat down to peer under the sea of Jess that separated us from the flood plain. With every member of the party experienced in African hunting, all of our heads were on swivels in an attempt to make certain that while focusing our attention on the quarry, we did not inadvertently bump into and spook a herd of Impala or Zebra or one of the scores of Bushbuck that were common to the area. The variety and abundance of game in Africa is such that it is a common occurrence to have an animal or group of animals that you are not actively hunting, spoil your approach or foil your efforts to get close to the animal you are pursuing.

We followed the meandering game trail for another 300 meters when Scotch suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, thrusting both of his hands in a downward fashion hands behind him, palms open signaling us to halt. We froze as one, then slowly sank to the ground to look under the Jess. Approximately 50 meters down the game trail was a small bachelor herd of Kudu bulls. We sat motionless for several minutes, quietly surveying the situation. We had a diagonal crosswind blowing in across the floodplain from the lake. The Kudu had not smelled us, but we had been damned lucky that they had not seen us. Chalk that up to the thick Jess! We slowly backed up a good 30 meters and sat down to have a quick parley regarding our next step. One factor was certain, there was no shortage of game to be found along this stretch of the lake, particularly this late in the year when so many of the natural water holes had dried up, forcing the game to migrate towards the abundant waters of Lake Carribba.

A quick analysis showed that we could not continue forward without spooking the Kudu. While it is certainly possible that the bachelor herd might not even be noticed by the buffalo, which were rapidly approaching the edge of the Jess, the problem remained that we had no idea what was beyond the Kudu! It’s like slamming the Q-ball into the nearest ball on a pool table with a blindfold on. Once you start everything in motion, you are never quite certain exactly what chain reaction you have started. So forward wasn’t an option and backward defeated the purpose! That left sideways? We decided that we had reached the fewer is better point in the stalk and so Dudley and I shook hands all around and slipped off the game trail in the direction of the floodplain. It was a toned down version of “damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”………only slowly, ever so slowly.

We moved forward in a low crouch, the hunting position I absolutely hate the most, my football days having blessed me with seven knee operations, double spinal fusion surgery and a myriad of other parts that work on and off without any degree of warning! We came to a small clearing where we suddenly realized that the game trail had gradually meandered inward and the Jess tapered outward along a stretch of high ground that stuck out into the flood plain! Instead of being 100 yards from the edge of the floodplain, we were at least 200 yards out and the brush was thinning. Why this was so is still lost on me as everywhere else it was thick as dollar signs on an ex-wife! I guess the “Old Boy” upstairs wanted us to work for this one!

We dropped down on all fours. I looked at Dudley, who signaled for me to take the lead. My pistol was holstered and I had my 8x30 Swarovski’s tucked into the front of my hunting vest. Our original intention, at least from my perspective, was that we were going to crawl about 30 meters across the open ground to the next stand of brush where we would be able to regain our feet to cover the remaining ground more quickly. WRONG! We crawled forward, stopping periodically to look around, while testing the wind constantly to make certain that it was steady and still in our favor.

We stopped at the next clump of Jess and as I plucked the first of the thorns from my left knee, Dudley tapped me lightly on the hip. I FROZE INSTANTLY! ……….MY MIND RACING!!! Had we blown the stalk? What had we done wrong? I shifted my weight to my left hip, tucked my left leg up underneath me, pulling my right shoulder back as I slowly turned my head around to make eye contact with Dudley. He crawled forward ever so slowly ………deliberately………I leaned towards him, cocking my head, positioning my good ear in his direction. He slowly raised his head toward mine……….I strained to hear his whisper……….”You know John……….you have a really big ass!” I choked back a wave of laughter, seriously considered strangling him and looked up in time to catch a wink from the weathered old face of my long time friend! Dudley had obviously never crawled behind me before!

I eased myself into a prone position, put my head on my right forearm and let myself go, chuckling as quietly as possible under the circumstances. I regained my composure, refocused my attention and realized that Dudley had decided that it was time to ease the tension in preparation for the final stalk. Experience is a wonderful thing and I have been blessed to have the good fortune to understudy more than my fair share of the finest teachers anyone could ever ask for! I looked back at Dudley again…..….he was all smiles! I winked back at him and nodded. He returned the nod and motioned me forward………the final stalk was on.

I looked to the right and left, then back to the front and started crawling forward again. In another ten meters, we could stand up. We closed the distance slowly. The old knees were getting sore. We reached a pocket of Jess. I rose up slowly and motioned Dudley to follow. We both rubbed our knees reflexively as we looked through the tangle of brush in front of us. The edge of the floodplain was somewhere up ahead as the amount of green we could see in the distance through the tangle had increased substantially. I looked for the most logical path that would take us to the next cover.

If we slipped around the left side of the clump of bushes we were standing behind, we should be able to walk damn near upright for another 20 meters, shielded the entire distance by another stand of Jess that was diagonally to the left. As we slipped to the side, I came to a small opening in the thicket through which I could make out a black mass in the distance. I pulled my Swarovski’s out of my vest and peered through the tiny window of light. At least 50 meters out in the floodplain, a full 150 meters from where we stood, there was a solid mass of black, ears twitching, tails swishing away the flies, old bulls looking up periodically, searching the wall of Jess for their age old nemeses, Panthera Leo. Satisfied that there was no way the buff had seen us during our approach, I started to lower the binoculars when Dudley grabbed and squeezed my right arm. This I knew was no joke! I froze in place, standing motionless. I rolled my eyes right and left in the sockets without moving my head. Satisfied that this had gotten me nowhere, I ever so slowly turned my head to the left. Standing 30 yards away staring right at us was an old buffalo cow!

She stood in the classic position, nose up and outstretched trying her damndest to determine what, if anything, we were! Cape Buffalo are not noted for their eyesight when it comes to reading an eye chart for a drivers exam! However, they are extremely capable of detecting movement. Once seen, if they can’t make you out and haven’t caught your scent, if you stand perfectly still long enough, they will eventually lose interest and go back to their business. If you blow it, however, they will snort and either walk directly towards you in an attempt to figure out who or what is intruding upon the herd or they will stampede away for a short distance, after which they will turn back to face you. How long we stood there, I can’t really say. I do know that my back was aching and I was wondering how fast I could get the Casull out of the holster in the event that she came much closer? What would have happened after that, I did not want to contemplate. Buffalo very rarely charge unless wounded, however, I have never really wanted to test the "fight or flight" response of a 1000 lb cow with only a pistol in my hand! It was just about that time that I REALLY missed my .500 NE double rifle, which was a good 100 plus meters away slung over Clever’s shoulder!

Just about the time I was thinking that I was going to have to move something!……..she looked away, looked back just as suddenly and then turned and went back to grazing. We waited for her to snort and spread the alarm, but nothing. We slowly sank to one knee and looked at each other. A simultaneous nod and we were both back on our hands and knees moving around the other side of the thicket. When we were sure we were out of the cow’s sight, we stopped and rose carefully in unison, hugging the nearest branches of the thicket to break our outline. The herd, as it had turned out, had apparently grazed towards a second group of Buff who were already off the floodplain and into the edge of the Jess. The nearest group of Buff were off to our left, however, the bush was thick and the wind was still blowing diagonally from right to left coming in off the lake and the floodplain. How much farther could we move forward without the buffalo to our left catching our scent? We searched the knot of buff that accompanied the cow, but saw no bulls at all, only additional cows accompanied by several calves.

We looked back to the right and the larger herd on the plain was feeding closer and closer to the edge of the bush. How much farther forward could we move without the quartering wind carrying our scent to the group of cows and calves to our left? After studying the situation for several minutes, I nodded to Dudley and then silently pointed out the direction I intended to move. He nodded back in agreement. Since the herd on the floodplain was strung out and moving right to left, I figured we would gamble and crawl straight ahead. If we moved to the right at an angle, straight into the wind, the entire herd would most likely be past us by the time we were close enough to take a shot. I was hoping that down low, close to the ground, that our scent would either break up before we were far enough into the quartering breeze for the cows to be down wind. The other possibility would be that our scent would be weak enough to not spook them to the point of stampeding. The course of action was thin on substance, but under the circumstances, there did not seem to be any other options.

We slipped back down into a crawling position, and before continuing our advance, a broad grin spreads slowly across my face, at which point I wiggled my “fat ass” back and forth for effect in revenge for Dudley’s earlier comment! I would have punctuated the gesture appropriately, however, a whiff of methane gas under the current circumstances just might have spooked those cows!

We crawled slowly for another 20 meters or so, each minute half expecting to hear a snort to our left rear followed by the thunder of hooves, but so far…………nothing. As the bush gradually opened up, we could see the knots of black take form through the occasional openings in the Jess and begin to appear in the shape of individual buffalo. We were still at least 100 meters away from the bulk of the herd. They were quite strung out with some groups continuing their march to our left front while others appeared to have stopped completely to eat their last fill of the lush grass before retiring into the shade of the thick bush. I picked up my third or fourth thorn in my left knee and was half glad that the repeated surgery had killed most of the nerves in both knees. Still they were beginning to bleed at this point and I wondered how old Dudley’s skinny, bony knees were fairing under our marathon crawl? We worked our way forward to the next clump of Jess.

I looked slowly to the left, wondering where the peevish cow had gone and whether or not she was still in a position to call us out? I raised up slightly, hugging the nearest clump of cover and scanned the bush to my left…………nothing………….I raised up a bit more, trying to find a decent window through which to view the buff on the edge of the floodplain. I found an appropriate spot and raised my glasses. I could clearly see at lest 30 buffalo spread out along a twenty-meter front right at the edge of the bush. A series of grunts, followed by a low moan caught my attention as it was off to our right. I scanned the thinning brush to the right and could see the backs of several dark forms approximately 25 meters away. The tail end of the herd had hung a left and headed straight into the Jess. I motioned to Dudley, who was lying flat on the ground behind me. He was already surveying the situation, having heard the commotion. He peered under the Jess to our right and shifting his body back and forth for a better look, held up five fingers. I dropped down slowly to check the view under the Jess. From my viewpoint I could make out two knots of black with lots and lots of legs! I raised my binoculars and adjusted the focus. By the time I stopped counting legs, I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. There had to be at least a dozen buff to our right now.

I looked at Dudley, at which point he smiled and gave me a thumbs up! I slipped back across the couple of yards that separated us and leaned over for a quick parley. In whispers that were mouthed more than spoken………”What do you think?”….…..”I think we just crawled right up the middle of the Bloody herd!”………...”Yeah, that about sums it up.”………….”Can you make out anything from this group on the right?”…………”Just a lot of legs and swishing tails”………….”It’s too thick to tell what’s what. I can make out at least two bulls, but I’ll be damned if I can tell what’s what through the Jess?”…………”What’s the plan? I’m just the Bloody cameraman, you know!”………….”Very funny Dudley.” Yeah right!

I looked at the jumble of legs again under the Jess and then slide back up against the bush in front of us, searching through my little window to take another look at the buff coming off of the floodplain. At least I could see what was what. They were right at the edge of the plain, about eighty meters away now. I checked the wind……..it was still quartering from right to left. If the buff to our right stayed where they were and didn’t see us, they wouldn’t smell us either. I dropped down slowly and leaned toward Dudley, as he moved up next to me. “Here’s the plan…….we need to cover another 25 to 30 meters straight ahead to get in range of the buff at the edge of the plain.” I slowly pointed in the direction of the buffalo to our right and shrugged. Dudley nodded his understanding. I couldn’t make out anything through the thick Jess to our right and besides, there was simply too damned much to shoot through, even if I had known what I was shooting at, particularly with a handgun. Picking a decent bull from an immature bull or from a cow in extremely thick bush is very difficult at best. Add to that the fact that with a handgun, even a Casull, the potential killing shots you have at a Cape Buffalo are very limited. If it’s not a clear, clean broadside shot, you simply can’t count on having enough penetration to get into the vitals of a buffalo!

We looked at the legs underneath the Jess to our right one more time and then slowly moved forward, hoping to crawl the last 30 meters without blowing the stalk. Every 5 meters during that last stretch, we would stop and carefully scan the bush to our right and left, knowing that the wrong gust of wind, or sudden movement in our direction could blow our chances and in the process, create a sudden confrontation that might be less than pleasant! Ten meters, we’re okay……….15……….no additional movement on our right……….20 meters ……….. several dark forms are suddenly visible off to our left, we are damn near surrounded! ………. 25 meters……….a short distance ahead is the warn down remnants of an ancient termite mound, now little more than a rounded pitchers mound with several clumps of scrub Mopane flanking it on either side. I motioned to Dudley, pointing towards the slight rise, he smiles and offers a wink! Five meters to go! We are slithering flat out now giving it our very best snake impression. No snorts, no alarm, no cloud of dust……….instead, we are nestled into a perfect spot, slightly elevated with cover on either side of us. It’s time to check out the herd, which is now fifty meters away filtering into the edge of the bush, feeding their way directly towards us now.

I pulled a US issue desert scarf out of my vest, then reached down with my gloved right hand and using the scarf to cover the bright stainless finish of the Casull, drew the large revolver from it’s holster. Dudley saddled up slightly behind me and to the right and started to get the camera ready. We had discussed the dangers of the Casull both in terms of one’s eardrums as well as the vicious venting of gas between the cylinder and the forcing cone of the barrel when the revolver is fired. I brought the scarf-draped revolver into position and wiggled from side to side until I was into position, trying to get as comfortable as possible. Once in place, I set the Casull down carefully on the scarf and pulled out my Swarovski 8x30s.

Scanning the group of buffalo directly in front of us, I looked for a nice bull. “What do you think Dudley?”……..I looked back at my old friend, who by this time was using the zoom feature of the camera to look over the portion of the herd that we could see. “I don’t see anything exceptional……….there are a couple of decent bulls………but they are all bunched up amongst those cows.” I searched again for a likely candidate.….…..but nothing stood out. I estimated the range to be 50 to 55 meters, perfect at least from that standpoint as I had zeroed the iron sights in at 50 yards before heading for Zim. With a six o’clock hold, the bullet should strike right above the tip of the front post centered in the rear sight.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the knot of buffalo began to lie down! This had not been part of the plan (not that the buffalo who were wandering around behind and to our rear exactly fit in particularly well either!). Now what! I strained to find a bull that was of trophy quality…………then I started trying my best to grow bosses on several of the larger cows! No luck with that approach either! We had a 30 to 40 buffalo chunk of the herd right in front of us and there was not a decent bull among them! Sad to say, but most of the better bulls will generally be found at the very front or very rear of the herd, where they watch for their age old nemesis, the big cats. We had managed to cut a slice right out of the middle!

What to do? I whispered as quietly as possible……….“Dudley……..…what do you think?”…..…….”I don’t see anything decent, but we can’t Bloody lie here all day either! Sooner or later, the wind is going to shift or some curious cow is going to stumble into us. I’m amazed we made it this far as it is”………..I looked back at the buffalo, all of them lying down now. I leaned towards Dudley and after making eye contact……….”Okay, here it is………..we have several non-trophy permits………..I don’t want to waste a stalk like this………..if I get a shot at a reasonable non-trophy bull, I’ll take it.”…………Dudley whispered, ”Wise choice, now for God's sake shoot something and let’s get the hell out of here!”…………Only it wasn’t that easy! The buff were lying down now in a tangled group, facing every which way, one in front of the other, a jumbled mass of black ratty hair, dried mud and dung.

Just about the time it seemed hopeless, a lone immature bull suddenly stood up in the middle of the group………..he threw his head back and forth, swished his tail and then turned broadside! I looked as closely as I could, confident finally that he was under the magic number so that I wouldn’t waste a trophy permit on a bull that did not measure up. I set the binos on the scarf as I slid it out from around the Casull. The ivory grips of the pistol fit well in my hand, the front and rear sight sliding into alignment, the tip of the front sight finding the bulls shoulder. Pulling the trigger first, to eliminate the mechanical click of the sear engaging the hammer, I ever so quietly cocked the hammer back, letting the trigger go only after the hammer was all the way back. I pushed the grip of the pistol forward as I pulled back with my off hand, steadying the ivory grips within the palms of my old weight lifting gloves. Then I started the slow deliberate squeeze of the trigger………..then, like a 10 year old contemplating his first deer, I could not get my breathing under control!

"GREAT!…….JUST GREAT!!!! “

I re-positioned my thumb on the hammer and pulled the trigger, letting the hammer down as quietly as I had cocked it. Dudley, seeing this lowered the camera………..”Steady Mate……you’re not exactly new to this!”…………I relaxed my grip, placed the brim of my bush hat in the dirt and rested my forehead on the ground between my extended arms. I let the tension drain away………counted to seven (ten would have been too long……seven was just right!)………raised my head and refocused my attention on the Buff volunteer from the audience! The hammer came back again, in a smooth deliberate motion……….the sights returned to the proper position on the bulls shoulder………..deep breath, half out………squeeze………squeeze…………BOOOOOOM! The distinct sound of the bullet striking home confirmed the hit………..the buff raised up on his hind legs for a split second, as though rearing like a horse………..I have never ever seen anything like it before or since!……….instinct took over and the hammer came back automatically. The sights fell back into place and as the wounded buffalo’s front legs made contact with the ground, the hammer fell again, sending another 360 grain solid into the buffalo's flank, the entire herd scattering in all directions, the wounded buffalo three legging it off to the right with the rear half of the herd in the lead.

“I got it all!” was the immediate response from my volunteer cameraman! I reloaded the two empty chambers, the big Casull suddenly feeling like a pop-gun in my hand with 200 confused buffalo milling about. We rose to one knee to survey the situation. As is nearly always the case with buffalo once you’ve shot one, the remaining animals that hadn’t already stampeded, stood perfectly still, staring at us for several long seconds before the nerve impulses reached the brain and they decided that they had rather be somewhere else! Dudley continued to film and before we could take a step in the direction of the stricken bull, we could here the rest of the company approaching from behind us.

I turned around and was immediately greeted by Scotch’s beaming smile, “CHIA NYATI TOOO TIMES!”……”Which way did he take off?”……it was Richard this time. “Off to the right”……..my arm extended, finger pointing……..”His right shoulder is broken and I hit him a second time as he turned, but exactly where I don’t know.”………”Bloody good shooting John!…….I can’t wait to see the video!”………”Spoken like a real cameraman Dudley!” A slap on the back from Joe was next, followed by another from Clever. “Let’s see what we’ve got here” Richard chimed in. Scotch and Clever moved to the front as I pointed out where the Buff was when I had fired my first shot. We picked up bright pink lung blood immediately. Richard and Joe fanned out on either side of me and we started across the edge of the flood plain, following the ever-growing trail of blood, bright splashes across the green carpet of grass, extending laterally with every pulse of the dying buffalo’s heart. My follow-up shot had lunged him. As we cautiously, rounded a small clump of Jess that thrust out into the plain, we heard the last mournful bellow as the buffalo expired.

Fifty meters away, the buffalo was down, it’s legs stiffening convulsively, shaking, then released, the muscles going slack, the hooves settling to the ground. We swung around, following the proper procedure, approaching the down, but potentially dangerous animal from the rear. “Watch your ears!”…….I walked around to the left to apply the “insurance shot”, the one that may save your life one day whether you realize it or not! Then the backslapping began in earnest, sprinkled with copious handshakes, hugs and yes……. ………even a few kisses! We took some quick photos, brought the cruiser around, loaded the buff and headed for camp. While the young bull was hardly trophy class relative to the majority of the other buffalo I have shot before and since, it was indeed one of the most memorable hunts of my career, made even more so by the company and particularly by the stalk. With a Wild Turkey and Ginger Ale in hand, we did a post-mortem of the handgun kill in the skinning area next to Ruppert's beautiful camp.

A word of caution here! Being a very thorough individual in everything I have ever done, when working up loads for the hunt, I contacted the company that produced the bullets that I used to take the Buff. In speaking with one of their engineers, I had asked about the feedback they had received for previous hunters and could they tell me what I might expect in terms of bullets performance at the velocity my load generated.

Question: ”Based on the velocity I am obtaining with this bullet, would you recommend a shoulder shot?”

Answer: “No problem! A shoulder shot will do the trick.”

Question: “What kind of penetration can I expect if the bullet strikes bone?”

Answer: “Shoulder to shoulder.”

Question: “Shoulder to shoulder?”

Answer: “That’s right.”

A shoulder shot was indeed what I had used and in examining the bull post-mortem, I would have to say that the seven seconds I spent regaining my composure had really paid off! The first shot had struck the buffalo spot on, striking the head of the humorous and shattering it into five pieces, after which the bullet promptly stopped right up against the fascia lining the inside of the shoulder muscle.

THE BULLET NEVER EVEN ENTERED THE CHEST CAVITY!

That we didn’t end up having a potentially nasty follow up was due to the follow up snap shot I had instinctively taken as the bull regained it’s footing and turned to three-leg it away! The second shot had entered the bull’s chest cavity just back of the shoulder, breaking a rib, after which it penetrated both lungs, breaking another rib on the off side of the animal before exiting the other side.

The rest of our time at Sengwa is worthy of a separate story as we shot the other four buffalo, two of which were excellent trophy bulls, in as many days, two with classic English double rifles. Joe’s two buff were taken with his beautiful .404 Jeffrey’s! Five buffalo in five days……..it simply doesn’t get much better than that!

The End ....... For now!
 

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#5 ·
During one of the many server changes that have been made since I first posted this story, for some reason on a lot of the older threads, this funky †symbol showed up everywhere???

I'll check to see if I still have the original Word doc and will report the story if I find it. Our wonderful friend and fellow PH, Dudley Nicolas who video'ed this episode and appears in the photo, passed away last year. He is sorely missed by those of us who knew him. Dudley had a wonderful sense of humor and was totally fearless in the bush.

Warmest regards,

John
 
#7 ·
Very interesting indeed. And now for the rest of the story, eh?

Not sure what my shoulder would think of a .404 Jeffrey or any of the heavy doubles these days, what with it now being a lot of titanium and cobalt alloy and HDPE instead of bone, ligament and cartilage...
 
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