It started with a delegation of trackers at 8pm as we were gathering around the fire before diner on the first night in camp. The camp is on the confluence of the Luwego River and another wide dry sand riverbed, a little south of where the Luwego joins the Mbarangandu River. This is really out there, as wild as it gets anywhere.
We were there to hunt Kiboko (Hippo) and croc primarily. In July the river meanders through sand banks a thousand yards across patched with green grazing. The camp is situated in the shady tree line on the collapsing soil high water bank over looking the broad expanse of the Luwego. The sand banks are scattered with game in the evenings. The sun set was clear with a radiant orange, violet and blue sky. The stacked silver rimed warm glowing clouds colored the rippled flowing river. A Goliath Heron rasped as it stood silhouetted at the waters edge.
The nights are a cacophony of Kiboko, Hyena and Lion. I could only just make out the trackers in the dark. There was a tall chiseled Mkuria who are known for their impertinence. He knew everything already it turned out, and was a mixer from behind the scenes. The two local lads were short and stocky as they often are down in those parts. The younger fellow proved an excellent tracker and hard working. A Maasai who informed me that he is an apprentice professional hunter was wise enough to stay out of the delegation.
After the required greeting away from ears in the dark, the trackers wanted to know; as we were after hippo and where unlikely to find the bull we wanted on the hills, with the river full of croc, reflecting on the death of a fellow tracker already lost to the Luwego crocs while retrieving a hippo only last year, this situation would require added financial incentive should we be so unlucky.
Basically they were preparing for the worst knowing we would probably have to wade or swim in the river to retrieve the hippo. Hippo can be shot in the water, but it is a difficult shot at a small target. Once they are dead they immediately sink, but float to the surface within a couple of hours as the bacteria in their gut continue to ferment the contents and produce gasses. The carcass will then be moved by the current down river until it comes to rest against some log or sand bank. From there it is retrieved by a swimmer who ties a rope to it so that it can be pulled to the bank.
These were all new staff to me and the general impression I had of the camp seamed to indicate they were used to liberal leniency. If they had known me better they would not have approached me in the same way.
A professional hunter is very much a team leader. The team is; all of the staff in camp who are required for all creature comforts and necessities, and the bush team of the driver with trackers and the government game scout. The hunting is, on most safaris, the most important aspect, as if the hunting goes well, the camp can be basic, unless the hunters are accompanied by more delicate or discerning family or friends.
One important part of the team was maneuvering for a large gratuity. I wanted to hit the roof but played it cool. It was nice of them to come out and say it but I mumbled nothing and moved back to my drink, the fire and the regular waiting on Doc and dinner. I was tired and recovering from one dose of malaria, while unknowingly sinking into the next, which hit as I arrived home at the end of the trip.
I could have easily taken one tracker only, but I needed to get to know them all, and they would be needed for hippo. No divide and rule option. We set off early the next morning and had no choice but to try for hippo as Doc wanted the trophy and we needed bait for crock. We only had four days in the area and needed to get on with it.
Bare in mind Hippo are the most deadly of Africa’s big game and out of the water, if you are seen, will often charge. They can cut you in half with one snap. Their twelve trophy tusks are almost entirely for fighting, and hardly ever used feeding. We stalked the river, tense and quiet, through thick dark riverine bush and forest full of hippo trails. These are uniquely wide and often have a ridge of grass running down the middle of the path giving them the appearance of a miniature dual carriage way, as the hippo’s legs are some distance apart. Hippos spend most of the day lounging about in water and commute long distances every night to the nearest green grass to graze. If you are early enough you may catch one on the commute at dawn. Some times you may find them resting on a sandbank in the sun but they will rush headlong into the water at the first sign of danger be it a birds alarm call or the smallest whiff of human.
The Luwego is beautiful, especially at first light. Slightly muddied brown cool water ripples past golden sand banks rimed with patches of shady green pod mahogany, bohemia and fig. At the point we were walking on adrenalin through, the river is only a couple of hundred yards across and the bank we were creeping along rises gently from the water. It is backed by a vlei that would become part of the river in flood. This made for difficult access without being noticed by the Egyptian geese, herons, hadida ibis, waterbuck or impala ever-present on the green fringe of the still wet vlei.
We disturbed baboon, banded mongoose and crested guinea fowl in the thick riverine forest. All of whom needed to be pushed away without their giving the full alarm. Each time we would freeze when we saw or heard them scuttling through the autumn leaves on the ground. Then as they got too close I would make small movements so they were aware of a presence but not frightened into shrieking with alarm. The baboons did set of noisily and so we rested and waited for calm to return to the surrounds. Both the guinea fowl and banded mongoose were only mildly disturbed and moved off making indignant little clucks or chuckles respectively. This is work of unusual intensity, as the entire body as at the apex of alertness, every little muscle is held in readiness as you stalk. All five of us tried not to make a sound.
We did not find a bull hippo out and I reluctantly prepared to take a bull in the water from one of the pods nearby. The difficulty in retrieving the beast is only half of it, more difficult still is selecting a bull and ensuring the shooter knows which one it is in a constantly moving pod of tightly packed hippo heads that all look much the same. The angle must be perfect and the bull needs to raise his head a bit to expose the hollow under his ear for the side shot. An alternative is between the eyes, but this is the small side of the brain and a smaller target. Not a good option at the distance and angle Doc would need to shoot.
We stalked through the cover and set up for the shot with patients and careful gesticulating and intense whispering. Finally now at mid-morning all was in place and Doc fired through the cover. He missed that first shot as the hippo moved as he fired. The bullet ricocheted off the water and smacked into the cliff behind.
The hippo erupted into motion churning the water in a frantic effort to find us and assume a defensive formation. They did not move far and we were able to approach them again.
The opposite bank at of the Luwego is a vertical cliff at that point, rising twenty foot from the water, which slows into a gentle swirling pool at its curved base. A watery fifteen foot deep cave undercuts the cliff which curls out into the water pushing the flow away to cut into the sandbank opposite. On the up-stream side of the mouth of the cave a rock ledge, just large enough to accommodate a resting beached hippo, slopes gently out into the water. The red sand left on it by the receding river was catching the mid morning sun.
The hippo moved up stream and halfway into the river between the cliff and a large sand bank. Now we had to throw all caution to the wind and stride out onto the sand in full view of the pod. I was on guard as they were a little pissed and I was looking out for a charge. None came but the body language was certainly antagonistic. Unbelievably the pod stood there ground and allowed us to within seventy yards.
There were two mature bulls with the pod but only one was a trophy. He now showed his true colors as he wisely moved to the back behind the cows with their young. We would get a shot and with Doc’s scoped .500/.416 well sighted it should be no problem if he gave us a target. We set up the sticks for the Doc and I carefully pointed out the bull, coaching all the time as to where he was and exactly what he was doing. Finally he lifted his head clear, side on. Perfect, but no shot came until he had started to turn. I never did find out exactly where that built struck but as the confusion erupted again I had seen enough to be concerned about it.
Anybody who has witnessed the full power and mass of an enraged pod of hippo as it erupts from sleepy cumbersome immobile solid lumps in the water to froth and foam and spray, will never forget it. Imprinted in your minds eye forever will remain the overwhelming power of an instant. Each adult, three tons, that appears so lazy when resting, can push up a bow wave a foot high. They snort very loudly and the air that bursting from their noses billows up a plume of spray eight feet above them.
Blood and water flowed from the target bull’s nose. I was looking for the charge again. Again none came, but we were trying hard to keep tabs on the bull in the confusion. He moved away towards the cliff and cave. In desperation as Doc tried to find him in the scope I pulled off three shots as he moved through the water with my open sighted Winchester .416. All missed by a diminishing fraction, the last whistling through the neck skin. All skipped of the river just short, as he moved fast and low in the water, and smacked into the rocks now only two yards behind him.
The hippo made the cave and disappeared into the gloom. I could just make out the top of his head under the overhanging rock. Doc could just make him out to and we moved the shooting sticks. After careful discussion Doc squeezed off the shot aiming with the angle just below the right eye. The Krighoff roared and the .500/.416 solid slammed home. An incredible shot. The hippo’s head dropped like a stone before the echo died. Now I was wandering had we done the right thing? The animal was wounded and as always the quicker it is finished the less the suffering. However the carcass, now out of sight, was in a cave across a crocodile infested river. Could I have waited for the hippo to move back out into the river? Would it have?
I asked the trackers about the cave and was informed that the water there was very deep. Perhaps twenty feet and that cave was also the home of all the big croc of the Luwego. That cave was beginning to look rather menacing.
There was no alternative but to wait out the hour and a half or so that the carcass would take to rise to the surface and hope it would drift with the current into shallower water down stream.
I studied the cave with growing concern as to me it looked like the carcass could lodge up against the roof of the cave and the current that seamed to split and circle into the cave could hold it there indefinitely.
While I stared into the cave I noticed a rounded rock just breaking the surface in the cave. I was sure it was the hippo’s belly and a long discussion ensued punctuated by swapping various magnifications of Swarofski binoculars.
I chose this time to venture the idea that some of us could try to forge the river and extract the three ton trophy from its lodgings. No, no, no, no, not a good plan, suicidal in fact. Hundreds of reasons came up. It was far more sensible to simply wait for crocs to dislodge the carcass when they feed that night then we would find it washed up downstream the next morning………
I was not convinced and spent an age trying to see any movement of the rock, that I was sure was the hippo, in order to see if it was buoyant yet. I could not be sure but it seemed to be bobbing about slightly. There were naturally still about twenty hippos that had no intention of budging from the deeper water in front of the cave.
The rock was the hippo, we finally all agreed, but was it moving? OK this was it. Plan A; we fire a few rounds into the water near the hippo hoping that either they move away or their stirrings will send a wave large enough into the cave to dislodge the carcass. Plan B; if that didn’t work we would cross the river and climb down the cliff in to the cave and try to swim over from the little ledge at the cave entrance and get a rope onto it before the crocs could eat us. It was after all suicidal and so could not ask anybody else to try. One small set back, we have no rope, none even in camp. I sent the pick-up back to camp to collect as much sisal twine as they could and then started on Doc, trying everything to have him agree to stay behind and guard our backs. This took some doing, seriously firm doing.
Doc started firing a few rounds near to the hippo pod. They created quite a commotion but they refused to move away and the lump in the cave didn’t budge.
I had scouted out the river and the best crossing appeared to be a little way up stream. Four trackers and I striped down to our underwear and after firing a couple of rounds into the water to scare away any lurking crocs waded out into the river. The trackers had said that the water would be deep in places and we may have to swim, which would be difficult carrying my boots and rifle, but as it turned out I had picked a good spot and the deepest water was only just above my knees.
Doc was pissed at my refusing to let him come across with us but he kept guard from the bank looking for and danger from hippo or croc. Once we had walked back down the opposite bank and up along the cliff we were overlooking the hippo pod and could gather stones and harass them into giving way. The trackers accuracy was on display as every time a snout broke the surface a stone would strike within inches. They were stubborn but eventually split half the pod moving off upstream and the rest down stream. They didn’t go far, but it was enough.
We then cut down two medium sized trees and haled them over to the cliff and slid them over maneuvering them so that we could use them as a ladder to climb down onto the ledge at the caves mouth. We had to make thirty foot ropes by joining ten strands of the twine together. This we attached to a tree above the cliff. This was our safety line.
Three of us climbed down onto the ledge with my rifle, keeping an eye on the agitated Kiboko nearby. Now with all the hype over the cave I would need to swim over to the carcass. I fired one more shot into the cave to scare off any off the massive crocs reputed to live in there. I have never been brave about water when I can’t see the bottom, so my mouth was dry as a waded in. The water only came up to my kidneys! I had the rope so that I could be haled back to the ledge and wouldn’t be washed along the cliff. What an anti climax and relief.
It was strange maneuvering this huge beast, remembering all of the scare stories of dead animals jumping to life, and crocs in the back of the mind. The cold skin was firm and leathery soft. Its size daunting.
We tied the strengthened twine to the trophy and set off back to the other side wading through deep water with hippo on either side of us staring menacingly. It was as I was halfway across the river with my boots in on hand and rifle in the other that I remembered a corny advert for boots that has an almost identical picture of the Hulk Hogan look-alike professional hunter John Sharp crossing a river in the same way. And then I remembered that on this occasion Patrick was filming it all. How embarrassing to be caught on video doing all this dramatic macho stuff. I was cringing at the thought of it. I immediately opened negotiations for the editing rights.
It was dark by the time we had it beached and dismembered. I spent the evening standing guard over the crew as they chopped and cut the carcass into more manageable portions in waist deep water with the rest of the pod forty yards away looking on. We didn’t even have time for the trophy photo, but what a relief to have the bait in the river and the trophy in camp.
We were there to hunt Kiboko (Hippo) and croc primarily. In July the river meanders through sand banks a thousand yards across patched with green grazing. The camp is situated in the shady tree line on the collapsing soil high water bank over looking the broad expanse of the Luwego. The sand banks are scattered with game in the evenings. The sun set was clear with a radiant orange, violet and blue sky. The stacked silver rimed warm glowing clouds colored the rippled flowing river. A Goliath Heron rasped as it stood silhouetted at the waters edge.
The nights are a cacophony of Kiboko, Hyena and Lion. I could only just make out the trackers in the dark. There was a tall chiseled Mkuria who are known for their impertinence. He knew everything already it turned out, and was a mixer from behind the scenes. The two local lads were short and stocky as they often are down in those parts. The younger fellow proved an excellent tracker and hard working. A Maasai who informed me that he is an apprentice professional hunter was wise enough to stay out of the delegation.
After the required greeting away from ears in the dark, the trackers wanted to know; as we were after hippo and where unlikely to find the bull we wanted on the hills, with the river full of croc, reflecting on the death of a fellow tracker already lost to the Luwego crocs while retrieving a hippo only last year, this situation would require added financial incentive should we be so unlucky.
Basically they were preparing for the worst knowing we would probably have to wade or swim in the river to retrieve the hippo. Hippo can be shot in the water, but it is a difficult shot at a small target. Once they are dead they immediately sink, but float to the surface within a couple of hours as the bacteria in their gut continue to ferment the contents and produce gasses. The carcass will then be moved by the current down river until it comes to rest against some log or sand bank. From there it is retrieved by a swimmer who ties a rope to it so that it can be pulled to the bank.
These were all new staff to me and the general impression I had of the camp seamed to indicate they were used to liberal leniency. If they had known me better they would not have approached me in the same way.
A professional hunter is very much a team leader. The team is; all of the staff in camp who are required for all creature comforts and necessities, and the bush team of the driver with trackers and the government game scout. The hunting is, on most safaris, the most important aspect, as if the hunting goes well, the camp can be basic, unless the hunters are accompanied by more delicate or discerning family or friends.
One important part of the team was maneuvering for a large gratuity. I wanted to hit the roof but played it cool. It was nice of them to come out and say it but I mumbled nothing and moved back to my drink, the fire and the regular waiting on Doc and dinner. I was tired and recovering from one dose of malaria, while unknowingly sinking into the next, which hit as I arrived home at the end of the trip.
I could have easily taken one tracker only, but I needed to get to know them all, and they would be needed for hippo. No divide and rule option. We set off early the next morning and had no choice but to try for hippo as Doc wanted the trophy and we needed bait for crock. We only had four days in the area and needed to get on with it.
Bare in mind Hippo are the most deadly of Africa’s big game and out of the water, if you are seen, will often charge. They can cut you in half with one snap. Their twelve trophy tusks are almost entirely for fighting, and hardly ever used feeding. We stalked the river, tense and quiet, through thick dark riverine bush and forest full of hippo trails. These are uniquely wide and often have a ridge of grass running down the middle of the path giving them the appearance of a miniature dual carriage way, as the hippo’s legs are some distance apart. Hippos spend most of the day lounging about in water and commute long distances every night to the nearest green grass to graze. If you are early enough you may catch one on the commute at dawn. Some times you may find them resting on a sandbank in the sun but they will rush headlong into the water at the first sign of danger be it a birds alarm call or the smallest whiff of human.
The Luwego is beautiful, especially at first light. Slightly muddied brown cool water ripples past golden sand banks rimed with patches of shady green pod mahogany, bohemia and fig. At the point we were walking on adrenalin through, the river is only a couple of hundred yards across and the bank we were creeping along rises gently from the water. It is backed by a vlei that would become part of the river in flood. This made for difficult access without being noticed by the Egyptian geese, herons, hadida ibis, waterbuck or impala ever-present on the green fringe of the still wet vlei.
We disturbed baboon, banded mongoose and crested guinea fowl in the thick riverine forest. All of whom needed to be pushed away without their giving the full alarm. Each time we would freeze when we saw or heard them scuttling through the autumn leaves on the ground. Then as they got too close I would make small movements so they were aware of a presence but not frightened into shrieking with alarm. The baboons did set of noisily and so we rested and waited for calm to return to the surrounds. Both the guinea fowl and banded mongoose were only mildly disturbed and moved off making indignant little clucks or chuckles respectively. This is work of unusual intensity, as the entire body as at the apex of alertness, every little muscle is held in readiness as you stalk. All five of us tried not to make a sound.
We did not find a bull hippo out and I reluctantly prepared to take a bull in the water from one of the pods nearby. The difficulty in retrieving the beast is only half of it, more difficult still is selecting a bull and ensuring the shooter knows which one it is in a constantly moving pod of tightly packed hippo heads that all look much the same. The angle must be perfect and the bull needs to raise his head a bit to expose the hollow under his ear for the side shot. An alternative is between the eyes, but this is the small side of the brain and a smaller target. Not a good option at the distance and angle Doc would need to shoot.
We stalked through the cover and set up for the shot with patients and careful gesticulating and intense whispering. Finally now at mid-morning all was in place and Doc fired through the cover. He missed that first shot as the hippo moved as he fired. The bullet ricocheted off the water and smacked into the cliff behind.
The hippo erupted into motion churning the water in a frantic effort to find us and assume a defensive formation. They did not move far and we were able to approach them again.
The opposite bank at of the Luwego is a vertical cliff at that point, rising twenty foot from the water, which slows into a gentle swirling pool at its curved base. A watery fifteen foot deep cave undercuts the cliff which curls out into the water pushing the flow away to cut into the sandbank opposite. On the up-stream side of the mouth of the cave a rock ledge, just large enough to accommodate a resting beached hippo, slopes gently out into the water. The red sand left on it by the receding river was catching the mid morning sun.
The hippo moved up stream and halfway into the river between the cliff and a large sand bank. Now we had to throw all caution to the wind and stride out onto the sand in full view of the pod. I was on guard as they were a little pissed and I was looking out for a charge. None came but the body language was certainly antagonistic. Unbelievably the pod stood there ground and allowed us to within seventy yards.
There were two mature bulls with the pod but only one was a trophy. He now showed his true colors as he wisely moved to the back behind the cows with their young. We would get a shot and with Doc’s scoped .500/.416 well sighted it should be no problem if he gave us a target. We set up the sticks for the Doc and I carefully pointed out the bull, coaching all the time as to where he was and exactly what he was doing. Finally he lifted his head clear, side on. Perfect, but no shot came until he had started to turn. I never did find out exactly where that built struck but as the confusion erupted again I had seen enough to be concerned about it.
Anybody who has witnessed the full power and mass of an enraged pod of hippo as it erupts from sleepy cumbersome immobile solid lumps in the water to froth and foam and spray, will never forget it. Imprinted in your minds eye forever will remain the overwhelming power of an instant. Each adult, three tons, that appears so lazy when resting, can push up a bow wave a foot high. They snort very loudly and the air that bursting from their noses billows up a plume of spray eight feet above them.
Blood and water flowed from the target bull’s nose. I was looking for the charge again. Again none came, but we were trying hard to keep tabs on the bull in the confusion. He moved away towards the cliff and cave. In desperation as Doc tried to find him in the scope I pulled off three shots as he moved through the water with my open sighted Winchester .416. All missed by a diminishing fraction, the last whistling through the neck skin. All skipped of the river just short, as he moved fast and low in the water, and smacked into the rocks now only two yards behind him.
The hippo made the cave and disappeared into the gloom. I could just make out the top of his head under the overhanging rock. Doc could just make him out to and we moved the shooting sticks. After careful discussion Doc squeezed off the shot aiming with the angle just below the right eye. The Krighoff roared and the .500/.416 solid slammed home. An incredible shot. The hippo’s head dropped like a stone before the echo died. Now I was wandering had we done the right thing? The animal was wounded and as always the quicker it is finished the less the suffering. However the carcass, now out of sight, was in a cave across a crocodile infested river. Could I have waited for the hippo to move back out into the river? Would it have?
I asked the trackers about the cave and was informed that the water there was very deep. Perhaps twenty feet and that cave was also the home of all the big croc of the Luwego. That cave was beginning to look rather menacing.
There was no alternative but to wait out the hour and a half or so that the carcass would take to rise to the surface and hope it would drift with the current into shallower water down stream.
I studied the cave with growing concern as to me it looked like the carcass could lodge up against the roof of the cave and the current that seamed to split and circle into the cave could hold it there indefinitely.
While I stared into the cave I noticed a rounded rock just breaking the surface in the cave. I was sure it was the hippo’s belly and a long discussion ensued punctuated by swapping various magnifications of Swarofski binoculars.
I chose this time to venture the idea that some of us could try to forge the river and extract the three ton trophy from its lodgings. No, no, no, no, not a good plan, suicidal in fact. Hundreds of reasons came up. It was far more sensible to simply wait for crocs to dislodge the carcass when they feed that night then we would find it washed up downstream the next morning………
I was not convinced and spent an age trying to see any movement of the rock, that I was sure was the hippo, in order to see if it was buoyant yet. I could not be sure but it seemed to be bobbing about slightly. There were naturally still about twenty hippos that had no intention of budging from the deeper water in front of the cave.
The rock was the hippo, we finally all agreed, but was it moving? OK this was it. Plan A; we fire a few rounds into the water near the hippo hoping that either they move away or their stirrings will send a wave large enough into the cave to dislodge the carcass. Plan B; if that didn’t work we would cross the river and climb down the cliff in to the cave and try to swim over from the little ledge at the cave entrance and get a rope onto it before the crocs could eat us. It was after all suicidal and so could not ask anybody else to try. One small set back, we have no rope, none even in camp. I sent the pick-up back to camp to collect as much sisal twine as they could and then started on Doc, trying everything to have him agree to stay behind and guard our backs. This took some doing, seriously firm doing.
Doc started firing a few rounds near to the hippo pod. They created quite a commotion but they refused to move away and the lump in the cave didn’t budge.
I had scouted out the river and the best crossing appeared to be a little way up stream. Four trackers and I striped down to our underwear and after firing a couple of rounds into the water to scare away any lurking crocs waded out into the river. The trackers had said that the water would be deep in places and we may have to swim, which would be difficult carrying my boots and rifle, but as it turned out I had picked a good spot and the deepest water was only just above my knees.
Doc was pissed at my refusing to let him come across with us but he kept guard from the bank looking for and danger from hippo or croc. Once we had walked back down the opposite bank and up along the cliff we were overlooking the hippo pod and could gather stones and harass them into giving way. The trackers accuracy was on display as every time a snout broke the surface a stone would strike within inches. They were stubborn but eventually split half the pod moving off upstream and the rest down stream. They didn’t go far, but it was enough.
We then cut down two medium sized trees and haled them over to the cliff and slid them over maneuvering them so that we could use them as a ladder to climb down onto the ledge at the caves mouth. We had to make thirty foot ropes by joining ten strands of the twine together. This we attached to a tree above the cliff. This was our safety line.
Three of us climbed down onto the ledge with my rifle, keeping an eye on the agitated Kiboko nearby. Now with all the hype over the cave I would need to swim over to the carcass. I fired one more shot into the cave to scare off any off the massive crocs reputed to live in there. I have never been brave about water when I can’t see the bottom, so my mouth was dry as a waded in. The water only came up to my kidneys! I had the rope so that I could be haled back to the ledge and wouldn’t be washed along the cliff. What an anti climax and relief.
It was strange maneuvering this huge beast, remembering all of the scare stories of dead animals jumping to life, and crocs in the back of the mind. The cold skin was firm and leathery soft. Its size daunting.
We tied the strengthened twine to the trophy and set off back to the other side wading through deep water with hippo on either side of us staring menacingly. It was as I was halfway across the river with my boots in on hand and rifle in the other that I remembered a corny advert for boots that has an almost identical picture of the Hulk Hogan look-alike professional hunter John Sharp crossing a river in the same way. And then I remembered that on this occasion Patrick was filming it all. How embarrassing to be caught on video doing all this dramatic macho stuff. I was cringing at the thought of it. I immediately opened negotiations for the editing rights.
It was dark by the time we had it beached and dismembered. I spent the evening standing guard over the crew as they chopped and cut the carcass into more manageable portions in waist deep water with the rest of the pod forty yards away looking on. We didn’t even have time for the trophy photo, but what a relief to have the bait in the river and the trophy in camp.
No comments:
Post a Comment