I have been extraordinarily fortunate to have been on Safari several times.
I have never shot a Kudu. Notwithstanding, that I am just delighted to be back out here, and have no expectations at all - if I had to pick an animal to successfully hunt, it would be the elusive Kudu.
This time around, I am 'half-gunning' with a pal and confined to Plains Game, in the hopeless expectation of trying to keep 'on budget'.
Towards the end of our planned "10 Day" hunt, our PH has to be elsewhere for two days. With the generous assistance of our two "Full Guns", me and my 'half-gun' mate are farmed out onto the other two Trucks as 'unwanted scufflers' to squat in their trucks for two days.
Feeling very much like an interloper in my mate's truck, he made me feel very welcome and I had the best couple of days with him and his PH.
On the morning of the first of these two days, my 'Full Gun' takes a beautiful Bushpig with his 500x450 and it was a treat to watch him do so.
By mid-morning, we have seen two decent bull Kudu. We stalk into them, but they are right on the edge of the 'no shoot' area (about 2 km) from camp. The PH sends one of the Trackers back to the truck to check with the camp Manager that it would be in order to proceed.
Impeccable ethics. The answer is in the 'affirmative' but it has taken an hour to get back to us. All the time we have been watching the Kudu, and I have enjoyed every second.
We crack on, but the wind shifts and they are gone. Was that it? Was that my chance at a Kudu gone?
The ground is a dry as tinder. The vegetation is dense and it is hard to spot anything.
We try picking up tracks...
We even head over to the river to try and see what is there...
I am beginning to think my chance has gone. Then suddenly one of the Trackers taps me on the shoulder and points.
Three Kudu Bulls off in the distance. In thick, thick scrub.
The PH grabs the sticks and I grab the camp .416, my mate (unbeknown to me) grabs a camera.
It is a long, slow and hard going to make ground. But, slowly, slowly, make ground we do.
Suddenly, the PH puts the sticks up in front of me and I quickly place the rifle into them. I can see one of the Bulls and he is 120 yards.
I try desperately to control my breathing and the circular motion that the rife is performing, as I try and settle the sight onto the animal's shoulder.
The PH suddenly locks his left arm and pushes it under my right elbow. This has the effect of 'locking in' my aim.
Satisfied I am 'on', I send the bullet. I do not lose the 'sight picture' and I see no reaction at all from the Kudu, all three Kudu then run off to the right.
The PH whispers in my ear:-
"You have gone over the top of it".
I am utterly crestfallen; the shot felt good and I thought it was on.
Then my mate appears at my side.
"I watched that through the bins, it was good".
We go forward to find the truth of the matter.
At the location of where the Kudu was, I search the ground, like a man who has nothing to lose.
There. A drop of blood no bigger than my fingernail. Bright red blood.
Fifteen yards away, more blood.
Fifteen yards away, still more...
My mate sidles up to me:
"I told you it was good".
Like the hypocrite atheist that I am, I prayed we would find the downed animal.
Then there, about 140 yards from the shot site, there he was. The Kudu. My Kudu.
The PH slapped me on the back so hard, he almost knocked out the tears that were welling in my eyes.
The Kudu was beautiful. He was old, he was majestic and he was massive.
Breaking every promise I made to my wife about this trip; and breaking the pact all four of us Hunters had made, not to bring 'stuff' back to the UK from this trip - he is coming home.
I have never shot a Kudu. Notwithstanding, that I am just delighted to be back out here, and have no expectations at all - if I had to pick an animal to successfully hunt, it would be the elusive Kudu.
This time around, I am 'half-gunning' with a pal and confined to Plains Game, in the hopeless expectation of trying to keep 'on budget'.
Towards the end of our planned "10 Day" hunt, our PH has to be elsewhere for two days. With the generous assistance of our two "Full Guns", me and my 'half-gun' mate are farmed out onto the other two Trucks as 'unwanted scufflers' to squat in their trucks for two days.
Feeling very much like an interloper in my mate's truck, he made me feel very welcome and I had the best couple of days with him and his PH.
On the morning of the first of these two days, my 'Full Gun' takes a beautiful Bushpig with his 500x450 and it was a treat to watch him do so.
By mid-morning, we have seen two decent bull Kudu. We stalk into them, but they are right on the edge of the 'no shoot' area (about 2 km) from camp. The PH sends one of the Trackers back to the truck to check with the camp Manager that it would be in order to proceed.
Impeccable ethics. The answer is in the 'affirmative' but it has taken an hour to get back to us. All the time we have been watching the Kudu, and I have enjoyed every second.
We crack on, but the wind shifts and they are gone. Was that it? Was that my chance at a Kudu gone?
The ground is a dry as tinder. The vegetation is dense and it is hard to spot anything.
We try picking up tracks...
We even head over to the river to try and see what is there...
I am beginning to think my chance has gone. Then suddenly one of the Trackers taps me on the shoulder and points.
Three Kudu Bulls off in the distance. In thick, thick scrub.
The PH grabs the sticks and I grab the camp .416, my mate (unbeknown to me) grabs a camera.
It is a long, slow and hard going to make ground. But, slowly, slowly, make ground we do.
Suddenly, the PH puts the sticks up in front of me and I quickly place the rifle into them. I can see one of the Bulls and he is 120 yards.
I try desperately to control my breathing and the circular motion that the rife is performing, as I try and settle the sight onto the animal's shoulder.
The PH suddenly locks his left arm and pushes it under my right elbow. This has the effect of 'locking in' my aim.
Satisfied I am 'on', I send the bullet. I do not lose the 'sight picture' and I see no reaction at all from the Kudu, all three Kudu then run off to the right.
The PH whispers in my ear:-
"You have gone over the top of it".
I am utterly crestfallen; the shot felt good and I thought it was on.
Then my mate appears at my side.
"I watched that through the bins, it was good".
We go forward to find the truth of the matter.
At the location of where the Kudu was, I search the ground, like a man who has nothing to lose.
There. A drop of blood no bigger than my fingernail. Bright red blood.
Fifteen yards away, more blood.
Fifteen yards away, still more...
My mate sidles up to me:
"I told you it was good".
Like the hypocrite atheist that I am, I prayed we would find the downed animal.
Then there, about 140 yards from the shot site, there he was. The Kudu. My Kudu.
The PH slapped me on the back so hard, he almost knocked out the tears that were welling in my eyes.
The Kudu was beautiful. He was old, he was majestic and he was massive.
Breaking every promise I made to my wife about this trip; and breaking the pact all four of us Hunters had made, not to bring 'stuff' back to the UK from this trip - he is coming home.
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